


Oh, I Can't Take Another Heartache

by MellytheHun



Series: Cruel to Be Kind [1]
Category: Hey Arnold!
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Coming of Age, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Elementary School, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff, Friendship, Growing Up, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Poetry, Puberty, Romance, Slice of Life, problematic characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-06-02 07:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6558220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Arnold begins his biggest adventure - growing up - he finds that the things he used to find easy and simple become more and more complicated and the people he used to have certain slots for in life... well, maybe they just don't fit in easily definable boxes the way he always thought. It's hard to tell if the world is getting bigger, or if he's just feeling, hearing and seeing more of it than before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This series explores Arnold's life from elementary school up into college. It is centered mostly around his relationship with Helga and while the first part of this series is light-hearted for the most part, as the series goes on it will explore darker more adult themes. Characters are intentionally portrayed as problematic for the purpose of growth and these problematic themes will be addressed throughout. As darker themes appear in the series, I will tag appropriately but I will also put warnings in the beginning notes that will give better ideas about what will be faced.
> 
> This series isn't going to be immensely dark, but it will approach life in a realistic way - ways that sometimes disappoint and can be hard to define as good or bad. 
> 
> There is a ton of symbolism and recurring themes throughout, please feel free to scrutinize and critique (politely, please)! A lot of this series is character study and meta.
> 
> As always, these characters do not belong to me, but I hope you enjoy my take on them.

Arnold had been excitedly explaining to his parents how Helga had essentially stared down a feral panther in the jungle, earning her the bizarre status of demigod among the Green Eyed People when it struck him that he hadn’t heard her voice for a while. He glanced around the tent; his classmates talking animatedly around him, smiles on everyone’s faces – smiles for _him_. That he finally found those missing pieces. His heart had never been so light.

He hoped that they smiled for Helga too, because he couldn’t have done any of this without her.

He told her as much when he kissed her.

And that got his face turning vivid colors. 

_I kissed Helga G. Pataki…_

A little voice in the back of his head joked, _‘and you live to tell the tale!’_

He chuckled to himself and excused himself from his seat with his parents, telling them how he ought to go find her, since she didn’t seem to be where she should be – by which he meant, next to him. Being congratulated and thanked, uplifted and celebrated. 

He stepped out of the tent and squinted at the hot, orange rays of the setting sun. There were people sitting around the campsite, talking and walking but there was no blonde hair among them, no pink shirt, no pink bow. He frowned, more concerned for her safety than anything else.

He shook his head, thinking to himself that he should know by now that Helga can handle herself, that she laughs in the face of danger and death seems substantially more frightened of her than she of it. Still, he knew he’d be fidgeting all night until he saw her safe and sound. 

He walked around the site for about twenty minutes, calling her name gently whenever he turned the corner of a tent or thought he saw a motion in the trees. No one replied, though.

Eventually he left the site and found her almost immediately. She was sitting in the soft grass at the top of a nearby hill. Her shoulders were slumped, her hair hanging like golden curtains around her downturned face. He didn’t know why there was a nervous lump in his throat to swallow, but it was there. 

Not that being nervous around Helga Pataki was new, but it wasn’t this type of nervousness he was used to. He was used to the ‘she might actually cause me bodily harm,’ nervousness, or ‘if her eyes are twinkling, it means something horrible is about to happen to me,’ nervousness. As he gradually approached her, he could hear her talking to herself.

“…of every worldly possession to hear those words, my Angel, those three, tender, impossible words –“

“Helga?”

“Arnold!?”

She shot up to her feet, shoving something into the collar of her shirt (a pattern he’d picked up on the past year) and turned to face him, looking panicked for a split second and – this is where Helga would usually brush away the scare, pretend like she was never frightened and angrily accuse him of trying to give her a heart attack. 

She was supposed to call him a creep, tell him to stop “creeping up on her,” even though she was right out in the open. She was supposed to rhetorically exclaim, “are you trying to kill me?! Criminy!” She was supposed to call him a stalker, allude to him following her and listening in on… well, whatever it is that she said to herself so often. 

She didn’t, though.

Rather, her face relaxed in a way he’d never seen before. Her shoulders, first high at her ears, fell a little; her eyes went a little less focused. He had assumed their jungle adventure had kept her on her toes and he didn’t really blame her for being anxious – it was very strange to see her calm down rather than get agitated by his presence, though. There was still a lump in his throat too. 

“What do you want?” she asked; not unkindly. 

_This is so weird_ , Arnold thought.

“I was looking for you,” he answered dumbly.

Helga rolled her eyes and replied, “well, congratulations, looks like you found what was hiding behind curtain three. Anything in particular you were hoping to achieve in this endeavor?”

He didn’t know if he should shake his head or try to talk again; talking felt dangerous right then. Like, no matter what he said, it’d be the wrong thing to say and she’d revert to the Helga Pataki he knew so well – the one everyone thought they knew. And sure, this side of her – this quiet, calm, approachable side of her was totally bizarre, but Arnold had to admit he liked it. 

He didn’t want to scare her back into her iron shell. 

“Uhm,” Arnold started nervously, gesturing at the ground, “this seat taken?”

She considered him for a few moments, then shook her head and only sat down again once he was beside her, his legs stretched out in front of him. He could feel her looking at him and he could smell her – she smelled a lot like the wildflowers and greenery of the surrounding jungle, but there was a distinct Helga Pataki scent to her too. 

It was like how people often smell like their houses – a smell they don’t even notice on themselves or in their homes because they’re so used to it. So, maybe it was a Pataki smell. It was nice, whatever it was. He almost said that, then thought talking about Pataki-specific odors was probably the weirdest and weakest conversation starter he had ever come up with. 

“How was dinner with your parents?”

His head shot up, not having realized he’d started staring down at his knees. He turned to her, curling one leg in and answered, “really amazing. Surreal, even.”

Helga nodded, then started picking at blades of grass and he wondered if she was nervous. _Did Helga Pataki even get nervous?_

Briefly frightened? Sure, that just happened. Anxiety-stricken? Absolutely – he’s even seen that. But nervous? Like, twitchy, can’t sit still, socially unsure nervous? That didn’t seem right. That didn’t fit into his Helga Pataki schema. 

“I couldn’t have done this without you,” he said; he had said that in the jungle, right before he kissed her and it made his face hot to say it again, “I’d be panther-chow, or lost in the wilderness, or just a bunch of broken bones over the edge of a cliff or a waterfall, or –“

“Are you kidding?” Helga smirked, “You were gonna do whatever it took to get your parents back, with or without me. And, uh, while it’s nice for you to say all that stuff, I’m really only gonna take credit for the panther. You totally froze.”

He laughed and was his laugh always this wobbly or high? Why was he so anxious? 

“Yeah, I did,” he agreed, “You were amazing out there.”

He saw her cheeks get dark and he was fascinated by it until she quickly turned her head down and away so her hair covered her profile from his eyes.

“It was nothin’.”

That statement was highly untrue. 

_Does Helga not take compliments?_ Arnold wondered for the first time, _I’ve seen her gloat and brag… but I’ve never seen her accept a compliment. I wonder why…_

To be fair, there were a lot of things he wondered about Helga. He wondered why she felt the need to be so rough, so domineering when she could be like _this_ – when she could be soft and welcoming. He wondered why she lied about being Cecile for so long – but when he figured that out in the jungle, she wasn’t really willing to talk about it. He wondered what it was she was always talking to herself about whenever he “snuck up” on her. 

He got the feeling that bringing any of those questions to the table would give him a serving of knuckle-sandwich, though.

“Hey, Helga...?”

“Yeah?”

“Why… why me?”

She turned to face him again, brow quirked inquisitively, “what are you talking about?”

“I mean…” he was blushing furiously and he could feel it; he rubbed the back of his neck and swallowed sort of loudly before looking into her eyes.

Were they always so blue? Her eyes were _so_ blue. Like maybe blue wasn’t even a color until Helga Pataki was born and opened her eyes – and did they always sparkle like that? Were her lashes always so dark and long? Was her nose always so button and her lips always so pink? 

His arm fell back into his lap and he was looking at her – maybe for the first time – and Helga could feel that, but she could also feel how he wasn’t totally present. He was staring at her in a way she often found herself staring at the back of his head in class…

 _What does he want?_ Helga wondered, _what is he thinking?_

“Why _me_ , Helga?”

His meaning suddenly struck her like one of his rogue baseballs to the head and she really, really wanted to look away, but his eyes were so imploring and his expression so earnest, so open…

_Oh, for Pete’s sake, am I really about to do this?_

His eyes shifted back and forth from her own nervously, anticipation clear as day.

 _What is he milking this for? Is he doing it just to embarrass me?_ Helga thought scornfully, but then her body relaxed again and her mind tagged on, _Arnold would never do that. Not even to his bully. I mean, he already knows I’m Cecile and he… he **heard** what I said in the jungle. It’s not like I **owe** the dweeb an explanation _ –

His eyes were shining, his cheeks rosy from a light sunburn and he was roughed up a little, a touch dirty still, but he looked so beautiful to her. He was lanky, but she got the feeling he would fill out as he grew and maybe someday, he’d even be taller than her. The gold hairs on his arms even shined from the setting sunlight and why that made her feel things, she hadn’t the slightest. 

She wished he could see himself through her eyes, just once. He was always so humble, he probably had no idea how beautiful he was to her – to the world. She wished he could just witness himself through her heart, feel what he did to her, just love himself for a moment as _she_ loved him – _oh, boy…_

So, with an inward groan, she surrendered. Her secret wasn’t a secret from him anymore anyway. What was the point?

She shut her eyes – it was easier this way. If she pretended she was alone and talking about him to herself, it might be easier.

“You mean besides being a literal ray of sunshine, being the most gentle, compassionate, caring, forgiving, understanding, empathetic, talented, interesting and endearingly optimistic person I’ve ever met?”

There was a silent beat and her eyes refused to stay shut, snapping open to see what buildings had crumbled in the wake of her admissions, what spontaneously forming crevices in the ground were coming to swallow her whole. The world was quite the same as it had been before she shut her eyes, though.

The sun was still lazily sinking further down to the horizon, the sky as orange, yellow and red as it was when she had sat down to admire it. Her back still ached, her hands still felt grimy and tingly – the ground was still whole and together and the structure of the physical world around them seemed pretty much as sound as it ever had been.

But Arnold’s green eyes were wide, his face was a dark shade of red and she felt weak. She felt small. And even though she spoke so quietly, it felt like everything about her was too loud – her voice, her head, her heartbeat. That shame, that self-consciousness forced her to look away. She looked down the hill where native villagers were calling children in for dinner, animals were being herded back into makeshift pens.

“Truth is… you were the first person that ever noticed me.”

“Wha-what do you mean?”

His voice nearly cracked and his chest was contracting almost painfully; he wondered briefly if he was dreaming. 

She sighed and pretzeled her legs, “I wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Arnold tilted his head like a confused dog and she almost smiled at that. Almost.

“Olga’s _ten_ years older than me,” she said, as if the meaning was glaringly obvious, “…I was a mistake, Arnold.”

She could feel him tense up and he opened his mouth, ready to deny every negative connotation, but she stopped him. Not with any physical force or interruption, even. She just made this sad smile Arnold immediately decided he hated more than any expression he’d ever seen on anyone before.

“It’s okay. Mistake or not, they kept me,” she shrugged, looking away again, “Miriam is only ever happy when Olga is home – otherwise, she’s asleep, or she’s drinking. Bob can’t even be bothered to remember my name most of the time. And by the time I noticed I was a person at all… I mean, Olga was still in high school – she was there to dote on all the time. So… no one noticed me. Especially when I was gone.”

Arnold brought both his legs up and leaned over them, trying hard to get a look at Helga’s face, but she wouldn’t let him. 

“What do you mean – what do you mean by when you were gone?”

She sighed again and then became infinitely interested in getting the dirt out from under her nails. 

“I mean… I mean that… _ugh_ ,” she groaned, rubbing the heels of her palms into her forehead, “I was like – I was like…it’s…I’m…”

She stopped moving her hands, took a deep and shuddering breath; he noticed her eyes were shut again and then she told him, “I’m like a shadow on a wall. I’m only there if the sun is out, hardly noticeable even then and when it’s not there – when it’s dark… I’m nothing at all.”

Arnold felt something in his chest breaking open. 

_Is this how she always feels? Like she’s **nothing**? _

He thought about Stoop Kid, he thought about Pigeon Man, he thought about Mitzy and his grandpa, of Chocolate Boy, Mr. Green, Sid, Stinky, Harold, Rhonda, Gerald – in what felt like a nanosecond, everyone he had ever helped flashed before his mind’s eye. And he felt guilt come over him like a chilled blanket.

Because, perhaps the person that needed his help the most was in front of him all along. If she felt like a shadow, if she felt like nothing, maybe she pushed people over and made such a ruckus to prove to herself she was real. Maybe it had nothing at all to do with hating everyone else and all to do with easing her loneliness.

Maybe she didn’t know how to say, ‘Arnold, I need advice,’ so she tripped him in the hall instead, maybe she didn’t know how to say, ‘please,’ or ‘help me,’ so instead she threw spitballs at him and called him names. 

He had never felt such a deep and profound sense of failure before. He wanted to break something, he wanted to run, he wanted to get away from her – or maybe pull her in close – the way she always seemed to hate, but maybe she felt something different altogether when he hugged her. He was about to open his mouth, ask her how in the world he could ever make up to her every missed opportunity he had to help her – but then she spoke again.

“But then you came.”

His mouth was still half-open, but no noise came out. She scrubbed a visibly shaking hand through her hair and he just kept berating himself inwardly – _does she always shake like that? Has she always felt this alone? Were there always this many signs? How did I not see it? How did I miss this? How could I fail her?_

“You saw me,” she said simply.

She finally turned to face him again, her eyes looking sort of faraway and glassy – similar to how they looked right before she kissed him on the top of the FTi building. He felt his face getting hot again and he couldn’t tell what expression he was wearing. 

“You shared your umbrella with me.”

She was searching his face for some sign of recognition – some sign that he remembered this, some sign that this memory was as significant to him as it was to her and he was so frightened he’d fail her again because he did not remember this. 

It certainly sounded like something he’d done – for multiple people, even. But he couldn’t recall ever having done this for Helga.

“You told me you liked my bow.”

That did it.

There were no feral waves of memories rushing to his mind, no high definition clarity or focus, but that rang true. He didn’t remember it precisely – but those words definitely left his mouth. He absolutely told Helga he liked her bow. They must have been so young – _how young?_ – he thought. It had to be before kindergarten – he knows by the time they were five she had already started with the mean names. _So, that means…_

_Preschool?_

His eyes widened – he complimented her bow in preschool and that’s why she loved him? For _seven years_ , she’s loved him just because… just because…

“Is… is that why you wear it everyday?” Arnold asked, voice trembling.

She nodded and he broke their leaden stare first, looking down at his jeans like maybe the muddy hems could explain to him what it was he was feeling and why he was feeling it with such intensity. His eyes betrayed him, though, sliding off his jeans to look at the pink bow that was wrapped like a tourniquet around his forearm.

One of his shaky hands rose to take it off, panicked, “oh no! Helga, I’m sorry! I-I didn’t realize!”

He was pretty shocked to hear her laugh. He looked up at her and there was that sad smile again – _ugh_ , that was awful. _Is that the only way she knows how to smile?_

 _No_ , that voice in the back of his head supplied, _she’s got that one that makes her look like the Cheshire Cat too._

He wanted to laugh… or cry or further berate himself, but he was frozen. 

He’d frozen in the face of Helga Pataki’s sad smile the same way he froze looking into the hungry eyes of a wild panther. 

“Don’t sweat it, I’ve got like twenty of them.”

His fingers ended up tapping uselessly against the bloodied, dirty silk around his wrist.

That rosy accessory was a monument to _him_.

Everyday she wore that bow, it had been for _him_.

In the hopes that he’d notice her again.

His heart broke. His brows curved in. Of _course_ he noticed Helga Pataki – how could you miss her? Big, bright blue eyes, lengthy, nearly platinum blonde hair, pink skin and long legs, her commanding personality, the most graphic threats in the loudest voice, the meanest curve ball in the neighborhood – the very air of every room changed when she would walk in. 

She was an enigma, she was a hurricane, she was –

_“Helga, you-you –“_

_“Yeah, yeah, I know, Football Head! Now, **move**!”_

_“You were **actually** going to take **a bullet** for me?”_

_“I was just acting on instinct! Stop making it sound like –“_

_“Helga, stop pretending like what you did back there wasn’t incredible! Helga - I-I couldn’t have done **any** of this without you, I wouldn’t even be **alive**! Helga, I…”_

_And he’d kissed her._

_He’d never kissed a girl before. He’d never kissed anyone before, actually. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, but they seemed to move on their own. His left hand had come to touch her cheek gently and the other had placed itself on her waist. Something heated and tingling rushed up his body from his stomach to his face when he felt her hands come to rest on his chest; he had never been touched so gently by her before._

_She was so soft. He wasn’t sure why that surprised him in the moment – maybe he expected her to be carved out of marble or something? That she’d be cold and rigid? But she was soft. So soft. Softer than anything and warm, warmer than anything he’d touched before. She was warm and plush and her mouth moved against his so immediately, so willingly, he had felt so… so powerful, so worthy – it had felt so good, so **right**._

_When they broke apart, she was still in the circle of his arms and he felt a goofy smile on his face he couldn’t wipe off. Her hands slid up from his chest to curl around the sides of his neck and he felt no fear or hesitation, despite his rabbit heart. Her lips were still close to his and she was gazing into his eyes with something so heavy, so thick and she had murmured,_

_“Any bullet, any jungle, any day… I love you, Arnold…”_

_His weightlessness had disappeared in an instant, the dreamy fog was sucked out of his irises, his smile vanished, but she still looked lost in his expression, like she couldn’t see that whatever spell had fallen over him had been broken…_

_“I’ve always loved you. Always.”_

_Her voice was so tender, so gentle – that couldn’t have been the voice of Helga Pataki. Helga Pataki was sharp, she was rough, her voice leaned more towards annoying than… than whatever lovely sound she was making then. Was it a whisper? A cello? A secret? How could she be a million conflicting things at once?_

_His jaw was clenched tightly, his heart pounding – then Gerald had found them, broke the suffocating, electric energy of the moment and Curly had come swinging on a wild vine, shirtless and covered in war paint, gleefully laughing out, “first blood is ours!”_

_Sid, Stinky and Harold had come tumbling out of the brush, Sid screaming something about what he swore was an Anaconda and then Phoebe had pushed Gerald aside, glasses askew and spotty with dirt, throwing herself at Helga, near tears, “- so worried, oh goodness, I thought we lost you, Helga!” and a thousand more exclamations sobbed into Helga’s dirty shirt._

Arnold’s jaw was clenched tightly again. His heart was pounding again. Was this what it would be like every time he spoke to Helga from now on? Was this what it felt like for her all the time? Was this what love felt like?

He watched her hands reach for tresses of her hair lying on her shoulders, how her fingers curled nervously around them. How downcast her eyes were, how her body was curved away from him…

Was he supposed to say it back?

Terror struck him. 

Did he _want_ to say it back?

More terror. 

Why did Helga Pataki have to have this effect on him? How did she wield so much power over him? Since when? For how long? To what end?

With a huff Helga stood up, brushing off her shorts, “well, we should probably get back to camp before Mr. Simmons decides to alert the Coast Guard that we’ve been missing for nearly half an hour. Pretty sure this whole trip has given him a condition. I mean, I can see that throw pillow calling the police the next time I’m ten minutes late to class.”

Arnold’s brows sprung up in surprise; she was going to walk away? She was going to walk away from him, from _this_? He couldn’t even tell if he was disappointed or relieved. But then he looked up…

She was standing there, so tall, so sure, so strong, the setting sun giving her an inhuman halo around the crown of her golden hair. She looked down at him, shadows dark on her face, her eyes incandescent, her expression so unguarded – her hand outstretched to him. For a quick second, he saw her for the demigod the Green Eyes saw her as.

He didn’t hesitate to take her hand; if this trip had taught him anything, it’s that he was safe in the hands of Helga Pataki – if there is one person in the world he can trust, it is Helga Pataki. There was more to that thought, something _more_ rumbling discontentedly beneath his overworked heart, but he didn’t dare investigate the noise.

Once he stood, he didn’t let go of her hand and she noticed that, but only glanced to their joined hands, then looked back to him. No objection, no brushing him off, no anger or irritation. Open, gentle curiosity. And something he had never seen in her eyes before; patience.

He thought he shouldn’t hold her hand like this, that he didn’t know what it would do to him, what it may have _already_ done to him – he should have let go. Instead of letting go, he looked into her blue, patient eyes while the sun died behind her, gradually slipping below the line of the horizon. 

The last rays were intensely warm and while Helga was waxing poetic in her head about how those final rays highlighted his flaxen hair and made his fair skin positively glow, he stated,

“Phoebe knew.”

“Huh? Knew what?”

“Phoebe knew all along. The person you really are,” Arnold expounded, “I always wondered how someone as timid and sweet as her wound up being your closest friend, but it’s clear now. She saw this – she saw you. She saw you for who you really are.”

Helga stayed very still for a moment before she nodded, looking a little flushed.

“Heh, yeah,” Helga started, looking away, “She’s tolerated a lot of crud from me over the years, but she always saw beyond that, I guess. As far as friends go, no one can compete with Phoebe –“ 

She was deflecting again, she didn’t want to talk about being in love with him anymore, she didn’t want to talk about who she was behind closed doors and he knew that, and he couldn’t tell if he wanted to talk about it more or never mention it again, he was stuck in this impossible limbo. 

He knew he had to say something back to her. He knew she must have been waiting for a response, that, even if she wouldn’t ask for it, she wanted him to define what happened in the jungle. It felt like a timer was ticking away next to his head and he inwardly scrambled for whatever kind words felt true enough to say out loud.

And then he said,

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend as true as you.”

Her head whipped back to him, her hair swinging with it. He stared into her wide eyes as the sun finally slipped away and now… now she was the frozen one. 

She was the truest friend he ever had?

She laughed inwardly at herself; why did she even start to hope? And how selfish was her starved heart that she couldn’t even accept such a kind thought without bitterness and resentment? Would she ever, ever learn?

Arnold was caught off guard by how quickly she snatched her hand from his, like he had burned her. 

And he had, he just didn’t realize how. 

Helga reasoned with herself that she could cope with a lot of rejection – she survived being the ‘extra’ of the family with only brief, fleeting moments of relevancy. She built a persona strong enough to plow through the insensitive comments of her classmates, the mean jokes at her expense; she built a persona meaner and colder than anyone could be to her.

She rejected Arnold as a form of protection, targeting him for torture, tricking him into thinking she hated him – that, even without a chance to show his greatest attributes, she’d rejected him outright. She rejected him before he could reject her because… she just didn’t think she’d survive that. 

She always imagined him being disgusted, even angry with her if he ever came to find the depths of her affections – but she had never imagined it like this. 

She never imagined the rejection being so gentle and sweet and the colors and impressiveness of her imagination could never have prepared her for how deeply and violently it stung.

All that past hour she had been on that hill, debating whether or not his kiss was just the product of overwhelming gratitude; she had, after all, reunited him with his parents and saved both their skins more than once. If their roles had been reversed, she didn’t know if she’d have been able to keep her hands off him.

Arnold wasn’t her, though – no, he was an Earth walking Angel. The Green Eyed People were onto something, she swore it. He was so, so _good_ and kind and compassionate and unrelentingly generous and that’s how she truly knew she was rotten to the core. Because he was the embodiment of goodness and she was absolutely nothing like him. 

Left to her own thoughts for so long, though, she supposed she had started deluding herself into believing that maybe, _maybe_ Arnold kissed her because he felt for her _something_ like what she felt for him. And then he had arrived by her side, like her sonnets had conjured him and he wanted to talk about her love for him – _why, why, why did I say anything at all?!_

She wanted to run from him. Maybe dig a hole deep in the ground, lie down and just never get up again. 

His words hurt so much more than anger or disgust. This “ _almost_ ,” this, “ _so_ _close_ ,” this “ _you’re good, just not good **enough**_ **.** ”

Looking into his eyes was painful, so she looked away. There was a blazing heat building behind her eyes, so she bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. No tears allowed. 

“Come on, you sap,” she rasped in that rough, recognizable voice, shouldering past him back toward camp, “your parents are probably wondering where you are.”

He rubbed his shoulder, turning to watch her retreating and hunched back. The further she got from him, the more the nighttime shade cloaked her and she began to feel like a distant dream. He wanted to reach out to her, to say something, but he wasn’t sure what. 

He pondered if her parents ever wondered where she was if she left dinner early, but he knew the answer to that and didn’t want to dwell on the sinking feeling in his stomach.

As he stepped down from the height of the hill, it felt like he might be closing a door that could never be opened again. He looked behind him, imagining the sun coming back up, reversing his steps, finding her again and doing everything differently – fix whatever just went wrong. 

But the raw Helga, the real one – she heard his reply and it wasn’t enough. 

He ran a hand through his hair, unable to see her anymore. Calling her his friend – even the truest he ever could have hoped to find in his life – it wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted him… she wanted him to love her. To love her like she loved him, like she had loved him for seven years. 

He was just an eleven year old boy. He didn’t know what to say or do – how did Helga have this all figured out? How did she know it was love - lasting, true love? And for him? All because, with a shift of his umbrella and an offhanded compliment she had been noticed? She had been made real?

That realization fell over him like loose boulders off a cliffside.

She had said something about not even knowing she was a person at all, she was invisible, she was a shadow on the wall – until he saw her. What was she then, once he saw her? _Real_? He made her real?

He didn’t want to move from that spot, but he had to. He didn’t want to talk to Helga alone again, but he’d eventually have to. He wished so badly he knew what he was feeling, could explain it in words that made any sense – he wanted so badly to stop causing her pain. 

He took another step down the hill and followed the torch lights guiding him back to the tents, his celebratory classmates, his loving, living parents and Helga G. Pataki – iron shell and all.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> Poem credit to Alyssa Payton  
> “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard,” is a quote from Winnie the Pooh.
> 
> Also, as a side note, I will eventually be addressing Arnold’s problematic Hero Complex later on – the thoughts he has are intentionally painted a certain way, particularly in how they compare and contrast to Helga's own problematic way of thinking (which you'll see in the next chapter - which I'll probably post on Thursday!)

Returning home from San Lorenzo had been bizarre – from the moment they crowded the plane – how Helga wouldn’t meet Arnold’s eyes and just stared melancholically through the window, the halfway suspicious, halfway concerned looks Phoebe and Gerald kept exchanging – to the moment they touched the ground and found their ways back to Hillwood. 

Everyone hugged Arnold before departing from the airport terminal – even Mr. Simmons. He hoped that at some point, in the mess and crowd of people, he’d see Helga come towards him; he hoped she’d give him a hug, even half-heartedly, even reluctantly – or give him any other sign that they’d be okay. And he didn’t even know what that meant. 

_Does ‘okay’ mean she goes back to being my bully? That we pretend nothing happened? Does ‘okay’ mean we’ll be friends? Even if not now… maybe… maybe somewhere down the line?_

When he started twisting his head around in search for her, he found nothing. He didn’t even glance at his parents before abandoning his suitcase and jogging lightly out to the pick-up/drop-off levels. 

He wasn’t sure what he would do when he found her – he sort of imagined grabbing her wrist before she left the building and turning her around, asking her if she’d forgive him or give him a reassurance that his friendship was enough. 

_It will **never** be enough. She **loves** you and you **rejected** her. The same way **everyone** has rejected her – you’re just another link in a chain of disappointment for her._

He unconsciously made a pained noise, brow furrowing worriedly; that voice in the back of his head was so unforgiving, but he was so fearful it was right. He didn’t notice he was picking up speed, didn’t notice how fast his legs were moving…

He was a little out of breath when he made it to the glass doors of the ground level – people coming and going, car lights and hotel/airport shuttles gleaming in the midday light outside. While he looked out from the glass barrier, Arnold noticed Helga getting into the car with Phoebe and her parents. 

_Of course her parents wouldn’t come get her._

That sense of failure consumed him again. 

_I should have offered her a ride home with me._

He frowned after her image – she wouldn’t look at him, even though he could’ve sworn she felt his eyes on her. How could she not? He felt like his gaze was a path lit in burning flames – she must have felt it, she must have been ignoring him. 

And he couldn’t figure out why that hurt him more than anything in the world.

The car left the sidewalk just as Helga’s obscured face was turning to look out the window – that same forlorn, faraway look she’d had on the plane. He ran along the windows, bumping into travelers and tripping over some suitcases, wanting so badly to catch just a glimpse of her. 

Why did it feel like something sacred was breaking and spilling; entirely irreparable? 

His eyes felt hot – which was stupid, it was silly – he would see her on Monday in school. He would see her – nothing was changing. Nothing was changing. 

_Is **that** the problem? _

A poem started playing on repeat in his head – a poem Helga had shown him. 

Before her backpack was lost in the jungle, it had contained a book of poetry she’d taken as entertainment for their long flight. He would dwell on the guilt of being the reason she lost her book and backpack later. 

She was embarrassed at first, when he had found it and asked her about it. She had gotten loud and angry and defensive; he had smiled kindly at her fury and told her he honestly thought it was interesting and endearing that she read poetry. He asked her if she wrote any - he could only imagine the type of poetry Helga Pataki would write, but something told him she'd be good at it. She was good at a lot of things. She had blushed and looked so wide-eyed and now he knew why. He wished he hadn’t been so blind.

He asked her to read one of those poems from the book to him during a particular night of distress, trying uselessly to sleep under a moldy, broken and hollowed tree. Trying his hardest to fight off the feeling of helplessness and hopelessness. Trying so hard just to be grateful that he had a friend to see the storm through with. 

The tropical, humid rain was coming down with a ferocity he was unused to, even during the most dangerous storms in Hillwood, he'd never seen anything like it. The thunder shook the ground, Helga’s flashlight their only source of light outside the brief flashes of lightning. He had thought of all the power outages in the Boarding House during bad stormy nights, how they would eat all the ice cream and how his grandmother inevitably made it some sort of celebration. Not in the jungle, though. He had been so frustrated and so frightened, but he didn’t want Helga to know that; not that he didn’t trust her, but she had already saved both their lives twice and she was keeping her head on so straight under such pressure. He wanted to stop being a burden on her, he wanted to feel like he was carrying his own weight.

She hesitated only momentarily before she dug into her bag; he was sort of enraptured by the calm of her expression as she nodded silently and opened her book, flipping to a random page; she was dirty and sore and she looked so tired and she had every right to blame him. 

She had every right to tell him this was all his fault, they needed to turn around and go back to the camp, to give up on his parents and just accept that they’re gone. 

But she hadn’t. 

She hadn't faulted him, she hadn't coerced him back to camp, she hadn't yelled at him, shamed him or blamed him for anything at all. She never even raised her voice. 

She had read him a poem instead. 

He was so shocked that she’d agreed to share something so personal, so close to her heart, he thought he hadn’t really heard the words of it. That he'd just sort of watched her lips move as she recited it, made a note of how her hands shivered with tire, wondered how much her muscles must have been aching, watched rain drops fall from the curled tip of a tendril from her bangs, onto the tip of her nose, down her cupid's bow and licked from her lips.

But he obviously had been listening, because now the words were swirling like a whirlpool between his ears.

_I’m a disaster_

_Still chasing the sunset_

_Can’t I run faster?_

_I want to catch its beauty_

_And hold it_

_In my empty arms that are_

_Full of your shadows_

_I can’t let the sun go down without me_

_You always come out in the darkness_

He forfeited the pointless, indoor chase and scrambled to get through a revolving door, still unsure of what he would do if he could even catch her eye. But when he made it outside and his sneakers smacked the unforgiving cement with a nameless finality, Phoebe’s car had already turned the corner and Helga was out of view. Gone.

His hands trembled a little, clenching and unclenching, sweaty and too warm. His chest hurt, his face was painfully hot, breathing was difficult – was this heartbreak?

Was he heartbroken to see her drive away from him?

Was he heartbroken to see her driven away _by_ him?

“Hey – kiddo, you okay?”

Arnold turned around to face his father, still looking rough around the edges, but happy and there and _alive_ – maybe it was all too much to process. Maybe he was feeling so many intense things because so much had happened – maybe he just needed time to work it out in his head and his heart and then he wouldn’t feel like such a jumbled mess. That sort of felt like a fat lie to himself, but was resolved to take it and run with it.

Maybe Helga was a Heaven and a Hell, maybe Helga was a sunset, maybe she was beauty, maybe she was a shadow in his arms – **_no_**.

Helga could be a million things and even a million contradictory things all at once, but she never was and would never be a shadow. Not to him. 

“Yeah,” Arnold replied, not looking an ounce like he believed it, “Yeah, I’m okay. I just thought –“

“The blonde girl, right?” his father asked gently, looking off in the direction the car had left, “Helga?”

“Yeah,” Arnold answered softly.

His father nodded and still looking away, told him, “unique name, Helga. Brave girl – maybe not brave enough to say goodbye, though, eh?”

Arnold’s brow finally relaxed, his shoulders falling. 

Was that what this was to Helga? A goodbye? A parting of ways? Was it forever? 

His heart sank; he didn’t know what he wanted, but he _did_ know he didn’t want Helga to be gone forever. Or gone at all.

“Saying goodbye is hard – seeing the end of a chapter, the end of an adventure is difficult. She’ll feel better when she figures out that the end of one is the beginning of another.”

Arnold nodded numbly and then looked up to his father’s nostalgic smile. His father looked back down to him and said, “how lucky we are to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” 

Arnold felt his eyes getting hot again, but before anything could come of that, he heard his mother’s voice call for them and then he followed his father to a taxi his mother had hailed. 

There was an enormous welcome-home-party waiting for them at the boarding house. Grandpa Phil was sure to cry at the sight of his son – Arnold would bet anything on it. There would be cake, soda, grins and so much more talking and everyone would want to hear about Arnold’s adventures and every single story was going to star Helga and he knew they would feel as good to retell as much as they would hurt. 

He didn’t want to entertain more people – the last night at the campsite had been more than enough celebration and introspection for his taste, but he didn’t see a way out.

He supposed he’d call it an early night at some point, whenever he could bear it no longer and then he’d trudge upstairs, just to lie down on his bed with open eyes, probably stare up through his skylight and think about Helga. 

About how her lips felt against his, how soft her voice was when she’d said, “ _always_ ,” and how it had made his stomach squirm half-pleasantly. He’d think about the shattered glass look of her eyes when he’d said the kindest thing he could think to say. The way she looked so pretty with her hair down like that. The unreal blue of her eyes so up close. The way the sun only died behind her once it had successfully given her an ethereal, glowing halo for his eyes alone to see.

In the taxi, he sat between his parents in the back, their arms around his shoulders, looking tired but present and happy. He looked between them, smiling weakly. Then he looked down at his lap and the pink ribbon wrapped around his forearm. 

He imagined how he’d get to shower when he got home, how he’d have to remove it and it was dirtied – it was soiled with mud and blood, but he knew in an instant that he could never rid himself of it. He could never see it in a trash can. He resolved to wash it. Maybe he could return it to her – if she even wanted pink ribbons anymore.

Yeah. He would wash it and return it to her. 

That would be a kind thing to do for Helga and as he leaned his head back and shut his restless eyes, Arnold thought to himself that Helga could use a few more kindnesses in life. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem credit to Louise Glück

“You’re, uhm – you’re quite sure you’ll be okay, Helga?”

Helga stood at the bottom stair of her stoop, staring exhaustedly at Phoebe. Phoebe had helped Helga remove her luggage from the trunk and her parents were waiting inside the car to drive home, but she felt uneasy about dropping Helga off. They were both worn out, but Phoebe could feel when Helga was threadbare and ready to break and it made her worry ceaselessly - usually until Helga finally felt secure enough to explain whatever was going on in her brain.

But while threadbare, Helga also felt far away from Phoebe, lost inside her own brain with all the doors shut.

“Yeah, Pheebs, I’ll be okay.”

“Will… will we eventually talk about this?”

Helga bit her lip and looked down at the sidewalk; to Phoebe, that was more concerning than her silence. 

Helga spoke to the ground when she recited a poem Phoebe knew well; Helga’s chapped lips parted and she said, “once is enough. Once is enough – to say goodbye on Earth. And to grieve, that too of course… once is enough to say goodbye forever.”

Phoebe’s brows curved in sadly, not fully understanding and she went to hug Helga, but then thought better of it. Helga wasn’t usually receptive to gentle touches – she didn’t want to upset Helga anymore than she already seemed to be. 

“Please call me if you need anything, Helga.”

Helga nodded and it was a promise she never meant to keep. Phoebe knew that too. 

Reluctantly, Phoebe got back into the car and stared worriedly after Helga until they turned the block and lost view of her. 

Helga stood there on the sidewalk with her suitcase for a few silent minutes. It was Sunday – midday – most people were probably still at their temples and churches; the streets were quiet but for a gentle breeze sifting through the leaves of the few trees and tossing around stray papers. 

Her knees were still dirty somehow – her clothes felt heavy, her sneakers were thoroughly ruined, her hair felt matted and all her skin felt like it had a film of grime over it. That always happened to her when she traveled, though.

She didn’t even care to check her surroundings before pulling out her golden locket, feeling like all her senses were dulled and maybe the only color that existed in the whole wide world were the colors of Arnold’s class photo. Her hands were weak; not that she’d ever drop her locket, but it was a close thing.

She thought ridiculously about dropping it and leaving it. She imagined throwing it into a bubbling volcano, down the waterfall she and Arnold barely survived tumbling through or maybe from the very edge of the universe where light didn’t even reach – she could throw it and never even see it gleam as it would be thrown in that one direction forever and ever.

Realizing every time from then on that she’d look at the sky, she’d be secretly hoping one of the twinkling stars was her locket, she discards that impossible fantasy. 

She imagines herself taking the locket by its chain and swinging it against the impenetrable brick walls of a nearby house, or a thick tree trunk, or using the chain to whip it against the sidewalk. She could see it playing out in her head; how the glass protecting Arnold’s photo would crack, webbing out and then break apart, fall out, how the gold would get scuffed and scratched.

But he wouldn’t bleed. He wouldn’t feel her anger. He wouldn’t melt in the lava, he wouldn’t get washed away by the fall, he wouldn’t freeze in the nothingness of lightlessness. His face wouldn’t really get pushed up against the rigid bricks, the sturdiness of Mighty Pete wouldn’t knock the wind out of him, he wouldn’t bruise or cut his arms or legs or chin on the cement outside Helga’s house.

He wouldn’t even know how angry she was, how much pain she was in - he wouldn’t know anything had changed at all. He wouldn’t hurt at all.

She wouldn’t want him to anyway.

Thinking of any and all of that was so useless.

She was mostly numb, but still, thick tears surged to her eyes, never spilling over. Just resting there, on the lips of her eyes, twinkling on her lashes, but refusing to fall. No tears allowed.

“Arnold,” Helga whispered; she cleared her throat, hating that weak almost sickly tone to her voice. 

She shook her head with a self-deprecating smile and confessed, “like wax to fire, languid and heavy I melt when you smile – and when you smile at _me_ … I can’t even breathe. How my eyes, my lungs, my heart and skin betray me the moment you are near – everything fades away when you touch me – every focus of the universe zeroes down to where your hand touches my own, Arnold… Arnold. All I have ever truly known in this rapidly shifting, directionless world is that I love you.”

She sniffed and tried to convince herself it didn’t sound wet; no tears allowed. 

“I-I hate to admit that beneath my strength, my stubbornness, my boldness – the space I dare to take up, the force of my winds and volume of my voice… all products of fear, I suspect…that my he _art_ – “

Her voice cracked on the last word and she scrunched her eyes closed tightly. Angrily she told herself to stop that. _No tears. **No** tears._

“My heart,” she repeated, “…it’s a rather… fragile thing. It really doesn’t take much to make old wounds split open and ache afresh. Doesn’t take much to crack my mind open like an eggshell, spill across the unforgiving frying pan – even when I knew the answer all along. I fall apart like a house of cards, even though I knew the answer to the question I wouldn’t ask… it doesn’t take much to burn me down to ash, as under your scrutiny, my beloved, I am thin and sapless as straw. The fire catches so immediately and I bend and break for any word from you, for your eyes to find mine…”

Her eyes softened, even as they grew glassier and she addressed Arnold’s photo as if he could actually hear her;

“You - sweet, infallible and so unlike me… you never belonged to me – I have no right to feel as though I’ve lost something, but… I feel it anyway. True love let me grow old enough to recognize it as my one caretaker in the world and then orphaned me not a moment later. I think, deep in my heart, I know I am meant to be alone. The world has been cold and unforgiving and me - muddy, sopping wet – who would _want_ me beside them anyway?”

She shook her head again, brow furrowing deeply.

“I know I am unsociable and... I am so put off by most people, so often disappointed. And even more often disappointing…”

She hoped that Brainy would pop up behind her soon. She didn’t know if she had the strength to hit anything or anyone right at that moment, but she’d give anything to have a distraction. She was never sure how he always managed to find her and she should probably have found it creepy, but she always understood it. Brainy and she – they were similar and he accepted her as she accepted him. They kept each other’s secrets.

Maybe he wouldn’t show up the one time she really needed to tear her attention away from her broken, smoldering heart.

“Your light will carry on,” she tells her locket, “a single beacon in the dark of my heart, no matter how many times and ways you turn me away. Your words could build me up or break me down – or you could have no words for me at all one day. And that’s okay too. I will… I will still carry the light you gave me, Arnold.”

Her voice turned into an unsteady growl when she added, “oh, how I-I-I resent you – I hate you, Arnold, you do-goody, clumsy, naïve little _shrimp_ , I _hate_ you, I _loathe_ you, I _despise_ you even… and yet…”

She lowered her hands, still clasping his photo. She tilted her head back, shutting her eyes, allowing herself to feel the sunlight move across her face, listening to the wind move through the leaves.

“I am forever indebted to you. And I adore your charitable inclinations. And I cherish every time you’ve come tumbling into me. And I treasure your childlike hopefulness. And I _love_ you – I love you so deeply, so truly that it makes – it makes no sense at all.”

She opened her eyes again, turning her head down to look back at Arnold’s photo. 

“Thank you, Arnold. My torture and my peace, my madness and my clarity, my wings and my chains, my wealth and poverty, my world and… my nothing. Thank you. I will carry this light forever. Long after I become a distant memory to you, blurry and ugly like a bad dream. Long after I will have heard for the millionth time that I should let you go – I will carry this light. Flickering and faint.”

Her fingers curled more tightly around the locket, watching the sunlight bounce of the curve of one of the rounds of the heart shaped gold.

“I will carry this light,” she swore, more to herself.

She took in a shuddering breath, tucked Arnold’s picture back into her shirt and patted it against her chest, feeling different. She took hold of her suitcase and walked up the steps of her patio, exhausted in ways she didn’t know she could exhaust herself. 

After jiggling the locked doorknob a few times and checking the windows, she realized that no one was home. 

She stood motionless in front of the door, thinking she should have expected this. 

Of course no one would be home. 

Her hands curled into fists, arms shaking with the tight effort.

Of course Arnold wouldn’t love her back. 

She gradually fell down on the concrete of her steps, hid her face in the bends of her arms over the top of her knobby knees and every beam and wall about, around and inside her crumbled. 

They all crumbled, that final blow too hard and she cried.

She cried.

The tears came barreling out of her with no reigns, no inner mantra could tame them; every unshed tear in her life was suddenly bursting from her like a geyser.

She cried so hard, she shook with it. She cried in violent waves that wracked her body and stung her nerves and contorted her face in pain – sobbing, forcing tremors from her restless hands; still dirty, still tingly hands.

All she could be grateful for in that moment was that there was no one to see her in undeniable grief, but then she heard that familiar breath. 

She wanted to scowl, she wished she had fangs and serrated claws, but she was trembling and weak and broken and unable to hide it.

She looked up at Brainy who stood next to her patio and gathered what strength was left in her, mustered her best glare, opened her mouth to spit something vile at him, but he raised his inhaler to his mouth and breathed in deep before saying to her,

“You don’t have to...” he gasped, “pretend for me.”

First she stared at him blankly; it was the most she’d ever heard him speak.

Then she shook her head, wanting to be left alone, unsure how to say that, but those words – something about those words struck a chord deep inside her that only made her cry more. She hid her face again, unable to voice anything to him and didn’t protest when he came to sit next to her at the top of the steps. 

He set his hand down between them as an invitation and he was fairly surprised when she accepted it; with fervor even. Her grip was suffocating and the tips of his fingers turned dark colors, but he only tried to keep his breath quiet so as not to annoy her and he squeezed her hand back to prove he was still there although she wasn’t looking. He got the feeling sometimes that if Helga wasn’t looking directly at someone or something, she feared it was gone, abandoning her like everything and everyone that had come before it. He thought that was why she kept a picture of Arnold too - like constant proof she could revisit any time she pleased, evidence that he wasn't just a dream.

She had some sort of horribly sad object impermanence, so he squeezed her hand and touched their shoulders together at times, to prove he was real. He was still there. 

He wanted to tell her, “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere,” but those weren’t the kinds of words Helga liked or wanted or needed. She didn’t want to feel weak – he knew that. So silence it would be.

Bob and Miriam didn’t make it home until well past five in the evening; their intrusion woke Helga from Brainy’s shoulder, which she had apparently been using as a pillow after wearing herself out. She didn’t have the energy to be embarrassed about that. Brainy didn’t seem to mind, anyway.

Bob complained that she obviously hadn’t given them the correct flight itinerary, otherwise they would’ve been home – she didn’t bring up the fact that she’d sent them both the itinerary twice. She only answered tiredly, “you still could’ve left the door unlocked.”

That started a tirade about the dangers and rates of robberies in their neighborhood, as if the Pataki’s had anything worth stealing in their home. She looked to Brainy, eyes puffy and tired; she squeezed his hand once and then rose to her feet and followed her parents inside.

The way she squeezed his hand – it felt like an apology and a “thank you,” and something else that she probably didn’t understand herself. Some sort of appreciation she'd never felt before. He sat outside on her patio for a few minutes before leaving.

Helga’s parents didn’t question her when she went straight to her room.

In fact, neither of them even noticed her absence until halfway through dinner.

She had her bedside lamp on and, after a long, steaming shower and a change into freshly cleaned night clothes, she lied down with no plan of ever rising again. She heard Bob call for her during dinner, though – she was a little impressed that they noticed she wasn’t down there.

She stood and moved towards her door, but as she passed her bedside table, she saw her shadow against the far wall and stopped before it. It was a clear outline of her, only slightly distorted in length. 

She stared at it for a long minute before wrapping her fingers around the lamp chain behind her and tugging on it gently once for the light to turn off, never taking her eyes off the spot on the wall where her silhouette had been.

When the light shut off, she was absorbed by darkness and the shadow was gone.

She stood in the dark for a few beats of her heart, then unfeelingly left her room and joined her parents in the kitchen.

She ate, but tasted nothing. Then she slept and did not dream.


	4. Chapter Four

Cleaning the ribbon proved a lot more difficult than Arnold first thought.

The surface grime was easy enough to wipe down, but once he cleaned off what he could, he saw the deep stains beneath and that the ends were frayed – one end of the ribbon even torn a little. He kept scrubbing under the cold water, every now and then adding salt between his fingers like his grandmother advised – there were small cuts on his fingers that he never would have noticed had he not been literally rubbing salt into them.

The bloodstains were brownish and difficult – already set into the dull pink and he didn’t want to ruin the fabric by being too rough with it, over-washing it or something. The tips of his fingers hurt from the friction, cuts he couldn’t even see stung terribly and everything very suddenly hurt. And hurt powerfully.

His whole body felt like a bruise and with the water still running, he took Helga’s ribbon down with him while he slid to the bathroom floor. He leaned back against the sink cabinet and focused on the pain throbbing through him.

His body had been through a lot – maybe he’d been in shock until then? 

He could still hear the boarders celebrating downstairs and he assumed he’d hear the party go on late into the night. Maybe that should have bothered him more. He knew, though, that even if the entire boarding house had been silent and still, he would get no rest. 

He was alone, though, finally; that was relieving – even someone as friendly as Arnold needed time alone. He’d spent a lot of time with a lot of people over the last week and he thought to himself that it would feel really rewarding to crawl into bed that night. 

He didn’t notice he was crying until he sniffled and had to wipe at his upper lip with the sleeve of his nightshirt. His toes and feet curled up a little, unhappy with the cold of the tiled floor and his knees came up to his chest where he was holding Helga’s ribbon tightly between his sore hands, close to his heart.

Shutting his eyes, he imagined her; reaching desperately for him through the rapids of the waterfall, running with lightning speed through thick jungle all while dodging arrows and calling his name encouragingly. 

How still and calm her expression was when she reached into her backpack and retrieved the book of poetry, how in awe of her agility and strength he’d been and how she’d scoffed at him and told him he “oughta know by now.” 

He imagined that panther with bulging muscles, perched on that huge boulder, staring at him with wide pupils and then how Helga had whistled to get its attention. He remembered the admiration on the faces of all the Green Eyed People watching from a safe distance; how that panther had circled her and she’d mimicked its every step. How she had stared it in the eyes; _challenging_ it, facing it like _she_ were the predator and all he could do was shake and stare in cold terror.

He thought of how she held his hand when they crossed that rickety bridge covered in Spanish moss, how she’d split that last granola bar with him without him asking her for any. How she had undone her bow and let her hair down, how without any hesitation, she had wrapped it around his shallow wound. 

How she told him how impressed she was that he could navigate the jungle by the moss growth on trees and stones, how his heart had thumped. How she had come to a skidding halt between him and La Sombra’s cocked gun, arms spread wide like wings and face so set in determination and fearlessness. 

He remembered that girlish sigh she’d made when he pulled her into the dark of the brush by her waist, out of sight. 

He remembered how strained her thin arms were, holding him only by the back of his shirt as he dangled over the edge of a cliff – that time she looked over her shoulder to him, hair down and wet and wild, eyes narrowed but an undeniable smirk on her lips as she had said, “I know where they are, but we gotta step on it, Arnold!”

Whenever she said his real name it made him sort of nervous. Looking back, that’s probably because she would only call him by his name when her walls were lowered and when her walls were lowered, they exposed an enormous, hungry heart pumping – totally visible and tangible, too spacious and loud to ignore. And his for the taking.

He remembered how the sunlight had caught on her long, dark lashes and bounced off her shining hair. He remembered how she looked like part of a painting when he first spotted her the night before; the way her shoulders were lax, how her hair had hung like thick curtains, the setting sun coating her in vibrant, incredible colors – how green the grass was, how tender the very air around her seemed.

How blue her eyes were.

He felt like he’d lived years within a single night. 

And he wanted to push this away and forget about it, like FTi. He wanted to pretend like everything was fine – he wondered if he was an unfeeling person until Helga confessed her love so sincerely. 

Every emotion felt like a torrent rushing through him, images and half-formed thoughts flying by him before he even had a chance to catch up to them. It was like Helga had turned a switch on in his brain that had never been touched before and now everything was so much more intense.

Those indescribable, unidentifiable feelings that he had for her or around her – even more intense than when they first ruptured like a volcano in him. The gratitude for his family and his life that now felt cosmically sizable, like he couldn’t fit it all inside one heart. All these things – they were suddenly so much more intense than ever before.

Even his sadness.

He cried on the tiled floor, clutching her dirtied ribbon, shoulders shaking and rounding up by his ears. His eyelids were heavy, wanting sleep that wouldn’t come and he cried out of frustration and he cried out of sadness – for himself, which he thought was selfish and unfair.

He cried for all the years he spent wondering where his parents were, he cried for the joy of their safety and still mourned all the lost time. He cried for his own pains – physical and otherwise. He cried for the people and animals that had been hurt in his search, for the people that maybe even died in his efforts.

He cried for Helga. For how she loved so deeply, how she feared – feared everyone and everything so much that she hid the best of herself from the world. He cried for every time he’d spoken ill of her, he cried for every ill word he’d heard spoken and never corrected. He cried for her iron shell and her tender heart. For the absence of her parents at the airport. For every day she wore that ribbon, for every opportunity he had to tell her she looked nice, she was pretty, she was talented, she was interesting – and didn’t take. He cried for how long she had spent feeling like she was nothing, like she was a shadow on the wall.

The ribbon was getting twisted in his hands and his knuckles were wet with his tears. He probably could have stayed there all night, but when he heard someone coming up the stairs, he quickly wiped under his eyes, splashed the still running cold water onto his face and then shut it off. He hurried to his room without being seen and found himself trying to catch his breath with his back against his bedroom door.

He unfurled his hand to look at the ribbon and while it was looking a lot better than when he’d first taken it off, he couldn’t hand it back to her in the condition it was in. 

He looked over to his phone and despite the time at night, he called the one person he thought could help him.

“Y’ello?”

“Curly?”

“Arnold? To what do I owe the pleasure and at such a late hour?”

“Uh – I need your help actually.”

“You’d think a guy would run out of favors after having me recruit an army of venomous, indigenous jungle animals in his quest to rescue his family!” Curly joked.

“For the record, I did not ask you to do that – not that I didn’t appreciate the efforts and your, uh… opportune timing, but this is, uh… different.”

“Oh?” Curly sounded intrigued, “How so?”

“I, uh – look, I need – do you have access to your parents’ dry cleaning store?”

“Why, this call is strange indeed! I am pleased to report to you, however, that I do have access to the store! Is this a matter of urgency?”

“Yeah – uh, no, I guess – I mean… maybe we could meet in the morning? Before school? Say around six?”

“That sounds reasonable – what kind of damage to what kind of article are we looking at here?”

“Blood on satin – old blood. Threads are loose, ends are, uh – a little frayed. A tear or two.”

“My goodness!” Curly exclaimed, “sounds like you’ve done quite a number on this poor fabric! Well, I’m pleased to be of service, Arnold. I’ll see you outside the shop at six tomorrow!”

Arnold was surprised; he had expected Curly to name some sort of price for his troubles – he had never known Curly to do charity work. He decided it’d be wise of him to stay on his toes anyway; maybe Curly was just looking for the right moment.

“Yeah – thank you, Curly.”

“It’s no trouble!”

“Goodnight, then.”

“Valete!” Curly replied and then the dial tone came.

Arnold put the phone down and hoped Curly could help him with this; it’s just a ribbon, after all. It’s small and fragile. 

He could feel another self-loathing thought spiral coming on, but his body screamed for relief and he heeded its warnings. He fell into his bed, pulled the covers up to his chin and stared up at the few stars he could see.

To his immense relief, sleep swallowed him whole and the only coherent thought he had before drifting off was how his father had commented on how unique a name Helga is. And Arnold agreed. It’s a unique and pretty name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've got a lot of meta about Arnold in my head. My field of study is psychology (mostly abnormal psychology), but I also really enjoy developmental psychology. Arnold sort of falls into a category of child that has been studied in abundance and I don't want to get into an essay here, so I'll narrow it down; I get the feeling that, especially with oncoming puberty, Arnold would be a child with a lot of repressed frustrations, sadness and a maladaptive sense of entitlement. This is not to say that Arnold is a bad guy, not at all, but rather that the challenges he is most likely to face (in regard to himself, emotionally and psychologically) will have to do with unpleasant feelings he has repressed for the sake of others. 
> 
> Arnold is a very self-sacrificing character and while he does all that he does with love and a genuine desire to help others, he is not often on the receiving end of meaningful help. He canonically has a sense of responsibility for others that is not appropriate for a child his age and he goes fairly under appreciated. As he grows older, this is a theme I will be playing with. Arnold has so often put aside his own desires and needs for the sake of others and now that he has his parents and feels he can be taken care of (to a degree), he is more likely to express want for things he otherwise wouldn't. 
> 
> A very important person to me once said, "selfish is not a bad word - it only means that you are taking care of yourself." I hope you bear that idea in mind as the story progresses. Arnold is a preteen boy just figuring out how to operate in the world again as a boy with a family and, I believe, a lot of repressed feelings. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the update!


	5. Chapter Five

“Show me the victim,” Curly requested solemnly.

The sun was still rising, the sky sort of dim and the air just a little chilly. Arnold reached into his jean pocket and produced the ribbon, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other.

He was caught off guard by the feeling of defensive possessiveness that came over him when Curly took the ribbon from his open palm.

He thought to himself to shelve that – whatever that feeling was. It was out of place and out of proportion and downright…weird. He’d worry about it later.

“A bow,” Curly observed thoughtfully, turning it over in his hand, “One of Helga Pataki’s bows.”

“Yeah,” Arnold said, wringing his wrists, unsure of what that might mean personally to Curly.

Arnold figured there were probably a lot of people that would refuse to do a favor for Helga Pataki based solely on her reputation; he was unsure whether or not Curly was a regular victim of Helga’s. Curly was always a wild card, though – Arnold couldn’t tell what direction any conversation with Curly would take. This one was no exception.

Curly looked grim when he adjusted his glasses and announced, “well, this is a dire situation indeed.” 

Arnold’s brow furrowed worriedly, “what do you mean? Can you fix it?”

“The edges will be a cinch, really – the tears and frays, no problem at all. I can even breathe a little more life in to the middle here where you’ve apparently scrubbed it thin.”

“The blood stain, though…?” Arnold prompted.

Curly’s mouth slanted, “I cannot make any promises, but I will do my best. Satin is a delicate fabric and Helga Pataki quite a delicate person. This will take me at least an hour, you should follow me insi –“

“What did you just say?”

“Hmm?”

Arnold took a step closer to Curly, his heart twisting around and he repeated, “what did you just say? About Helga?”

Curly was nonplussed, asking as if the words were not absurd, “that she is delicate?”

Arnold stared in abject bewilderment for a few beats until Curly opened the shop door and after the jingle alerting the unpopulated space to their arrival, Curly explained, “you know, I’ve always gotten along with Helga. She and I are very much alike, you see, although how we approach our respective inner selves seems vastly different.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Arnold complained, feeling lost.

More than lost too – possessive again. 

Was Helga close with Curly? Why did that thought bother him? What did Curly know about Helga that Arnold didn’t?

“We are obsessive creatures – she, Sid, Brainy and I. We all have… well, something about fixations. Based on my own personal observations over the years, we all handle them quite differently. Sid, for example, expresses his innermost obsessions as fears and doubts in bouts of hysteria and anxiety, obsessions changing in subject, but never intensity. Brainy stalks Helga’s every move, makes every effort to be beside her at all times, but says nothing of his deep affections for her – “

“Wait, wait – slow down,” Arnold interrupted, holding his forehead as Curly took out what looked like some sort of Advanced Sewing Kit, “ _Brainy_? Brainy stalks Helga?”

“You’ve never noticed?” Curly replied conversationally.

“I guess there are a lot of things I haven’t noticed…” Arnold mumbled to himself; he was about to ask more about how Curly knows Brainy has feelings for Helga and if Helga knows Brainy has feelings for her and if Brainy has ever told her about those feelings and if she has feelings about Brainy’s feelings – 

“I, on the other hand, dedicate time, patience and efforts to woo my queen openly,” Curly explicated, gesticulating widely, “Building papier-mâché models of her likeness out of her discarded notes might seem extreme to one, yes – taking advantage of every time we are close enough to breathe in deeply beside her, so I can carry that scent with me all day – that might seem untoward. Sure, asking for locks of her hair to keep under my pillow might seem strange – but that’s what I mean. There are few other people I’ve known that would understand that impulse and the harmless urges that fuel it and so they are the honorable few; Sid, Brainy and Helga.”

“What – but, what about that makes Helga delicate?”

Curly put some metal headpiece with hanging, adjustable mirrors and lights around his bowl cut that magnified his eyes into bizarre proportions. He used tweezers to lift and turn the ribbon around as he started digging in his tool box.

“She builds fortresses no one can see and writes poetry no one will read,” Curly starts simply, leaving Arnold torn between a sudden and misplaced sense of jealousy, protectiveness and sad confusion. 

Ever since Helga’s serious confession in San Lorenzo, it felt like his heart was constantly trying to run in seven or eight different directions at once.

“She keeps her obsessive nature hidden – I don’t think she is naturally ashamed of this part of herself, but she thinks that she _should_ be,” Curly continues, “No one builds fortresses around solid, sturdy works of art, Arnold – people build fortresses to protect what can easily be destroyed if accessed.”

And so among the million other things Helga Pataki was – the way she was beauty and cruelty, brave and fearful, loving and cold, a Hell, a Heaven, a hurricane, an enigma, she was delicate and a fortress too. 

Had she let down the great walls of her fortress to let Arnold in? Had he… _destroyed_ the art of her oversized, bleeding heart? Did she regret giving him access?

“How… how do you know all this?”

“You mean, about Helga?”

“Yes.”

Curly let out a small, airy laugh and responded kindly, “why, Arnold, all it takes is a watchful eye.”

There was something akin to anger that came over Arnold, as if Curly was accusing him of not being watchful over Helga. And – fair, he wasn’t. He really didn’t like how it felt to have someone calling him out on it, though. 

He opened his mouth, unsure of what would come out when Curly, without looking up from his repairs, added thoughtfully, “but I suppose even if her behaviors are noticed, to feel them and empathize with them is something else altogether. And to truly understand them – it takes someone cut from the same fabric, so to speak.”

Arnold’s open mouth turned into a frown and Curly looked up to him briefly to finish, “as Catherine Breillat said, ‘I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because ‘romantic’ doesn’t mean ‘sugary.’ It’s dark and tormented — the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can’t attain!’ – she and I are kindred spirits this way. We aren’t obsessive really; we’re passionate, tormented, devastating. I suspect one day she will grow to respect me as I have grown to respect her; she’s a sharp girl, she will eventually realize this understanding we have of each other. Perhaps during a time when she is not so… _distracted_.”

The implication made Arnold’s face burn up and he decided it was probably a good idea to sit down, let Curly do what magic he could and keep his mouth shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates!? I know! I might not update next week - I'm working several fic projects at once and while I've written all of part one and most of part two of this series, I would like to stay ahead of it as I post it. Hope you enjoy!


	6. Chapter Six

Curly’s work was near miraculous. The tears were sewn so delicately and accurately, one could never tell there had been a tear in the first place. The frayed edges were trimmed and perfected and where the ribbon had been rubbed a little thin, Curly had somehow thickened – the ribbon could have been mistaken for brand new if not for the stain.

Curly tried his best, but the blood had set for too long and while he got rid of a lot of it, there was still a dim, muddy, reddish color in the center and a little by one of the edges. Arnold frowned down at it, grateful but still sorry he couldn’t return it to its former glory.

He and Curly walked to school together, but as soon as Gerald spotted Arnold, he’d swept Arnold away with a totally disingenuous apology to Curly – Curly didn’t seem to mind, though.

“What? What’s going on?” Arnold asked.

Gerald pulled him around the side of the building, glanced around to make sure that no one was listening and then looked sternly at Arnold. 

“Man, _what_ did you do to Helga Pataki?”

Arnold’s heart skipped a beat.

_I made her real._

“W-why? What’s happening?”

“Have you _seen_ her?”

“No, I _literally_ just got here –“

Before Arnold could finish his indignant complaining, Gerald grabbed his arm again and pulled him toward the front entry of the school. On the steps, Phoebe was easy to spot. Oversized sweater, dark hair, big glasses, black flats – then next to her was Helga. 

She was wearing jeans. 

She was wearing jeans and a white, loose-fitted t-shirt. That alone was unsettling, but when he looked at her face – she was so pale. Her eyes looked ghostly, she had dark smudges beneath them like she hadn’t slept for weeks.

Or maybe she’d been crying for weeks in just the few hours of night, just like Arnold had lived so many years in a single night.

He shook his head, mostly to himself, having forgotten Gerald was watching him closely. 

He didn’t want to think about Helga crying and he definitely didn’t want to think about being the reason she cried.

“Arnold, man… what happened between you two?”

The question was only half-heard, because time had just about stopped for Arnold.

She was wearing her pink bow, right atop her head where she always had. He couldn’t decipher what feelings bubbled up inside him to see that – he couldn’t tell what he was supposed to do, say or think. 

The week was bound to be long after returning from such a physically and emotionally demanding trip, but Arnold had sort of hoped he’d at least get that first day back without some turbulent storm of incomprehensible emotion.

But no, he couldn’t be excused from this – whatever _this_ was. 

“Arnold?”

He turned to face Gerald, brows curved in and he could tell Gerald was getting increasingly worried the longer he stayed silent.

“She’s in love with me.”

Arnold learned in school that after dropping the atomic bomb in Japan, there were parts of sidewalks and roads with shadows imprinted on them; all that remained of the people that had been within that impact zone. How impossibly still and quiet Gerald had become reminded him of that.

“She…as in…”

“Helga…” Arnold interjects.

“ _Helga_ … she’s… in love with you?”

Arnold nodded, lips pulled in a firm line.

“Helga Pataki!?”

Arnold nodded again.

“Helga Pataki…is in _love_!?”

“With me.”

“With _you_!?”

Arnold watched while Gerald stared into an empty space.

“Helga Pataki. Just – just, so we’re on the same page here – Helga _G._ Pataki is _in love_ … with _you_?!”

“Yes,” Arnold sighed, blushing darkly, “Yes. Helga G. Pataki is in love with me.”

“She _told_ you that?”

“Yes.”

“Man! **_Helga Pataki_** told you she’s **_in love with you_**!?”

Arnold smacked his hands over Gerald’s mouth and looked around nervously, “Shh! Gerald – it’s not even my secret to tell… I just… I just can’t hold this all in alone.”

When Arnold took his hands away, Gerald’s expression turned serious. Arnold knew his trust was always well placed in Gerald; no matter how obnoxious Gerald was bound to be about this, he would keep the secret. 

“How – I mean… when? What _happened_ in the jungle?”

He didn’t mean to scoff, but Arnold knew there was so much that had happened, it was impossible to explain. He shook his head and replied quietly, “I… I’ve sort of had an inkling for a while.”

Gerald gave him a look that clearly read he knew there was much, much more to that story than Arnold was saying. Instead of pressing him for details (not that Arnold would have _any_ idea how to describe what happened at the top of the FTi building), all Gerald asked was, “so… what changed?”

Arnold didn’t answer right away, uncertain how to and Gerald could see his unease clear as day. He frowned and asked, “did you… uh, did you, you know… turn her down?”

At Arnold’s cringe, Gerald felt like he was finally getting into the loop.

Gerald glanced back to Helga and felt a sort of pity growing for her. She was probably his least favorite person on the planet, but heartbreak is heartbreak and she looked half-dead. Whatever she felt for Arnold, she obviously felt it strongly and she must have been pretty crushed to be rejected.

He turned his focus back to Arnold and said, “man, it’s okay that you don’t feel the same way. Can’t control who you do and don’t love. I’m pretty sure Helga Pataki would give _anything_ to not be in love with _you_ ,” Gerald chuckled, “And I can’t even imagine what _you’re_ feeling –“

“That’s the _problem_ ,” Arnold interrupted, looking pensive, “ _I_ can’t even imagine what I’m feeling. I… I don’t know what I feel for Helga. When I think of her, I mean, I feel… I feel so much, like I’m gonna explode or something.”

“Like anger?” Gerald asked worriedly.

“No – maybe? I… I can’t tell,” Arnold admitted, holding his forehead in his hand, “Whatever she makes me feel, it’s strong. And, Gerald…”

They made meaningful eye-contact and Arnold told him, “she found my parents. She… when a panther was about to _eat me_ , she drew it away from me – she held my hand, she used her ribbon to wrap up my cut - when La Sombra was going to _shoot me_ , she jumped in the way, she read me _poetry_ – she – she – she –“

Arnold didn’t realize he was halfway hyperventilating until Gerald put a hand on his shoulder to soothe him. Arnold’s tired eyes were glassy again and he looked up to Gerald, slumping in a fatigue unlike he’d ever felt before. 

“Gerald… she makes me feel _so much_ , I just don’t know _what_.”

Gerald’s mouth was a concerned, firm line and there was a silent moment before he sighed, dropped his hand from Arnold’s shoulder and said, “man, I wish I could help, but this sounds way outside my area of expertise. Plus, I’m not even a fraction as good as you are when it comes to giving advice.”

That got a weak smile out of Arnold.

“You’ll figure this out, Arnold. It’s okay – give it time.”

Arnold nodded but only hoped it wouldn’t take him seven years’ time to figure out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This comment at the end about the 7 years (besides being blatant foreshadowing) is sort of a throwback to how long it took Helga to tell Arnold how she felt. Having loved him since she was around three and it took her until they were ten to admit it to him, it was a 7 year period of silence between. So, that's what Arnold means when he says that. 
> 
> Arnold's actually gonna talk to Helga next! Aren't you all excited???


	7. Chapter Seven

There were no spitballs thrown at the back of Arnold’s head that day. He stared at the blackboard as if his eyes could set it on fire; an itch inside him he couldn’t explain making him irritable. 

His hand unconsciously traveled to his scalp all throughout class, but there was nothing to shake out. When between classes, Arnold went to get water from the fountain, Helga was nowhere to be seen. It felt wrong for his face to be so warm and dry on his way to lunch.

He sat with Gerald, Sid and Stinky in the cafeteria and across the room was a small round table where only Helga and Phoebe sat. The boys were talking around him and maybe even directly to him, but he wasn’t responding and he wasn’t paying attention to them. He was focused on Helga.

She didn’t have anything in front of her. 

He had seen her open her lunchbox before to find nothing in it, but this was not like that. There was no box, no food and she hardly looked alive. He thought to himself that she shouldn’t have come to school that day – she looked like she needed to be in bed, resting. Regaining the color in her cheeks, the twinkle in her eyes. 

He watched Phoebe gesture at a water bottle for a while, obviously whispering worriedly to Helga. All Helga did was shake her head and open her mouth in a small way, making it impossible to hear or decipher what she might be saying. 

That’s when Arnold saw him.

Brainy.

Brainy was peeking around the side of a vending machine to look at Helga.

Arnold adjusted his seat, leaning onto the table more to maybe get a better look. He’d never noticed before, but maybe this was normal. He couldn’t remember seeing Brainy sit at a table with anyone regularly; maybe he always sat behind wherever Helga was?

_Should I say something to him?_

Helga was a girl that appreciated her privacy; if she knew Brainy stalked her, she might be unhappy about it. Warning Brainy to keep away from Helga would probably be doing Brainy a favor – save him from whatever beating Helga would dish out if she found out he was following her around. 

…Helga couldn’t have known Brainy stalked her, right? _Right?_

Then again, Curly was right when he said Helga was a sharp girl. If Brainy’s been stalking her for as long as Curly implied, Helga would have noticed by now. 

So, did Helga know Brainy followed her and just do nothing about it? Did Helga… not mind it?

That fired something in his belly that he couldn’t name.

Arnold contemplated approaching Brainy and telling him to stop, but then Helga lifted her head and her eyes found his. His heart sped up and he thought for a quick second he might be sick by how nervous he was. Her expression didn’t change at all; like she was looking right through him. It unnerved and upset him. 

Without word to any of the boys at his table, he stood up and approached Helga’s table. A few people looked up to watch and he could definitely feel Gerald’s eyes on his back. Phoebe moved her glasses up the bridge of her nose and Rhonda, Nadine and a few other kids were tracking him from another table. Arnold hoped the attention didn’t bother Helga; it’s not like anyone knew what had happened between them. 

“H-hi, Helga,” he started awkwardly.

Helga hadn’t moved an inch and she was quiet for so long he thought she might be ignoring him, but then her voice came; the familiar one, the rough one, the voice he knew closely.

“How’s tricks, Arnoldo?”

It was so dry and sarcastic, Arnold nearly laughed, but he was too nervous. And, frankly, knowing Helga had a plush, soft inner heart made her rough exterior just a touch silly to him. 

“I, uhm,” he glanced nervously at Phoebe whose face gave away absolutely nothing, then looked back at Helga, “I wanted to know if I could talk to you. In private?”

He looked over Helga’s shoulder, but Brainy wasn’t there anymore. Arnold’s brows curved in confusion, but then sprang in delighted surprise when he heard Helga agree.

“My office?” she suggested.

The janitor’s closet.

Arnold figured it’d be the most privacy they’d get in school anyway, so he nodded. The thought of asking to see her after school was too nerve-wracking. She stood up and without looking, told Phoebe from over her shoulder, “I’ll be back in a few, Pheebs.”

Phoebe nodded to Helga’s back and gave Arnold one more unreadable, assessing look before turning back to her lunch and appearing unperturbed. Arnold followed Helga out of the cafeteria, too worried to look back at Gerald (though he could feel the heat of everyone’s eyes following him out anyway) and they walked in silence down two halls until she opened the janitor’s closet door, turned the light on and sat on the abandoned desk. 

Her legs were crossed at the ankles and she stared tiredly at him until he closed the door and reached both hands into his jean pockets. Her ribbon was in his left pocket and he rubbed it between his index finger and thumb anxiously. 

He stared at her white shirt, at where the collar met her neck and the blonde, delicate hairs that curled there. He could see a sliver of a gold chain tucking into her shirt there; his eyes followed the line, but the shape of whatever was attached to the chain was hidden by the loose cotton and he heard her say,

“Take a picture, pal, it’ll last longer.”

Arnold’s head shot up and he wiped the fear from his face as fast as he could; he couldn’t even tell why he was so frightened.

“Sorry, Helga,” Arnold began a bit more confidently, “I, uhm…”

_I came to give you your ribbon back._

More silence passed.

Why weren’t his lips moving?

_Curly helped me clean it and it’s not perfect, but I really did try._

Why was no noise coming from him?

_I wanted to return it to you and thank you._

Why couldn’t he say it?

_Are you wearing your bow because you still love me?_

It was like a lump of hot coal in his throat

_Do you still love me?_

_Did I hurt you?_

_Will you be okay?_

_Am I only making it worse?_

_How do I make this better?_

_How do I stop failing you?_

“While we’re young, maybe?” Helga grumbled.

Arnold gripped the ribbon tighter between his fingers, his palms getting sweaty; he idly thought to himself that talking to her and thinking about her and existing at all near her was a lot easier when he thought she hated him. Now nothing made sense or came easy. Breathing even seemed difficult; his heart was pumping like he was running even though he was standing perfectly still. 

His whole world was topsy-turvy and he thought her confession shouldn’t have had this much of an effect on him. He wondered if telling Lila he ‘like-liked her’ last year had this effect on her, but he knew it couldn’t have. Helga didn’t like-like him. Helga _loved_ him. 

Maybe her way had been right all along; maybe Helga knew what was best. Maybe the cruelties she acted out for him were for his own protection, that they were actually kindnesses to shield him from _this_. This enormous, monstrous, hungry thing she’d woken up inside of him. 

He thought to himself that he shouldn’t have forced her confession out of her on the top of FTi and he shouldn’t have kissed her in San Lorenzo. Even though both those times made him feel invincible.

Like he could take flight; like he could do anything. Like he could save a neighborhood, like he could rescue his parents, like he could feel whole. 

But maybe pretending to hate him – to hate each other – maybe that was the right way to deal with it all. Maybe when Helga thought too much about her love, she felt just as turned around as he did. He so badly wanted to ask her.

“Well, Shortman, this has been a fascinating talk; real enlightening, but I’m gonna head on back to the cafeteria now.”

He saw her jump down from the desk and panicked, stiffening up. 

“W-wait, I’m sorry, Helga, I just – I just…”

He trailed off again and she looked so _done_ with him. He felt worse. What if she really did hate him now? What if this was what it looked like when Helga Pataki genuinely hated someone? It was worse than her sad smile. It was worse than being ignored by her. It was worse than anything.

He couldn’t give her the ribbon back, he realized. He didn’t want to.

He gripped it more tightly and swallowed roughly; he wished whatever was happening to his heart would stop. 

“I just…wanted to know…if… if we’ll be okay? I mean – if _you’ll_ be okay.”

He half expected her to scowl at him and brush off his concern, maybe call his bluff. But maybe she was too tired to catch the lie or too tired to care. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Arnold nearly let out an annoyed sigh, because he didn’t like this weird dancing-around-the-topic thing, but he figured shining a glaring light on their secret would only make her angry. 

“Right,” Arnold answered, “uhm…do you…do you hate me?”

“Of course I do.”

He was devastated for a split second, but then shyly looked up and saw the smirk on her face. It was barely there, but – 

“What’s there to like about a stupid Football Head like you?”

He wanted to smile and he nearly did, but the air was still so heavy. And he was paranoid that she might figure out that he was keeping her ribbon and read too much into it – not that he knew or understood what was there to read. 

Not totally sure about what he was going to say or do, he extended his hand out to her and brushed her shoulder with his fingertips, but she was out of reach lightning fast. He looked into her eyes again and although her expression didn’t show it, her eyes looked like those of a frightened animal. It burned him inside in a cold way he’d never experienced before.

“D-don’t touch me,” Helga ordered, voice sort of shaky, no real authority behind it.

Was she scared of him?

Arnold’s face got hot and he wanted to argue with her for some reason – burn this fiery energy in him. He wanted to bring up that she certainly didn’t seem to mind him touching her in the jungle, or that she certainly didn’t seem to mind touching _him_ on the FTi building – why was his right to touch her redacted? Did she really hate him? Would he ever be allowed to touch her again?

And why was being allowed in her space, being allowed to touch her so important to him all of a sudden?

He thought of all the times they collided on the street corners, all the times he hugged her without any sense of self-preservation, all the times he held her hand, how closely he’d danced to her on April Fool’s Day, how many times their hands brushed while exchanging papers or books – how much they touched in San Lorenzo. 

Would he never touch her again?

He tried desperately to remember what her skin felt like – how soft her palms were, how strong her grip was – what it was like to wrap his arms around her and pull her in tight.

If he’d known San Lorenzo was the last time he’d ever be allowed to touch her…

He didn’t know. He didn’t know what he would’ve done differently, but he knew that the thought of her fearing his touch was like a knife digging into his chest.

He frowned, looking pained, letting his hand gradually lower and he nodded his understanding despite understanding nothing. 

There was a tense silent moment and then she was out the door before he could say anything more. He stood there in the janitor’s closet for a long few minutes, petting her ribbon between his fingers and listening to his heart bleeding, wondering what in the world Helga Pataki had done to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you folks order some pain? Here is your delivery of pain lol


	8. Chapter Eight

On the last day of fifth grade, Mr. Simmons still insisted on reading their final creative writing projects aloud. 

Arnold listened carefully, looking completely obvious; he was such a bad liar, and so terrible at hiding secrets. He kept stealing glances at Helga, but she appeared to be doodling in her notebook, bored and entirely uninterested. If she saw him in her periphery or felt his eyes on her at all, she certainly didn’t show it.

“And this last poem – this poem is by Anonymous –“

“Aww, come on, Mr. Simmons!” Stinky complained, “It’s the end’uh the year! Can’t we all just know who Anonymous is now?”

Sid, Harold and Rhonda made some encouraging noises and Arnold’s head twisted quick to look at Helga. She was sitting perfectly still – her hand had stopped moving. That was the only sign that she was disturbed at all; Arnold tried to imagine what she might have been feeling, how her heart must have been pounding. He was ready to plunge headfirst and take credit for being Anonymous if the kids pushed Mr. Simmons anymore.

He looked a little ways behind Helga and saw Brainy staring at the back of her head; he couldn’t tell if she noticed Brainy. He wished he could tell what Brainy was thinking.; Helga too, for that matter. Then he moved his eyes forward a few seats and broke out in goosebumps when he found Curly already looking at him. He was smirking.

“Now, Stinky – Anonymous has entrusted me with their identity and work all year. I can’t betray their trust now. I never know what to expect from Anonymous, but the format of their final poem this year is highly different than their usual sonnets.”

Arnold looked back to Mr. Simmons, who was smiling curiously at the looseleaf in his hand. He added, “it’s much more traditional in it’s approach – a rhyming scheme I’ve read before, but what I think I love about this poem is that it captured the theme of the final project so entirely.”

_Never stop asking questions._

That was the theme.

It was the first and arguably the most valuable lesson Mr. Simmons instilled in them all; never take the simple answer, never accept anything at face value, dig and sort until you know the in’s and out’s of everything the world tosses your way. 

Most of the poems and short essays had been answers to questions; Rhonda’s poem had been an answer to the question ‘is beauty eternal?’ (yes, apparently). Sid’s had been a short essay about anxiety and always second-guessing himself, but how that allowed him to grow. Harold’s had been surprisingly introspective, wondering if his constant hunger was a sign of his want for something beyond physical nourishment. Curly’s had delved into something dark and bizarre about the uncertainty and unlikelihood of a loving God – and then, Anonymous. 

Arnold wasn’t a strong writer – never had been. His projects were rarely read aloud. He was glad his wasn’t read aloud – he didn’t like feeling so uncreative. He was an artist at heart; traditionally, musically and in many more senses. He just wasn’t a strong writer. He had a hard enough time working out his feelings inside his own head; getting them down on paper seemed near to impossible.

Not for the first time, Arnold thought to himself that it was a little funny how Helga could hardly piece together words about her feelings in person, but she could write out complex thoughts and feelings as easily and thoughtlessly as she breathed.

“The poem is titled, ‘ _I Don’t Think So_.’”

Arnold looked down at his desk and then shut his eyes.

“What is love and what about love's so grand?

What's in a person's smile, or grip of hand?

Do you chase love and all it entails?

Can you find it in a box, on a rack, on a sale?

When you have love, do you still chase?

Or do you sit around, wait and waste?

How long do you wait?

And for what do you wait?

For love to shift, grow or change?

For love to grow up, down or strange?

How long do you love?

And what is it you love?

A poem, a person, a heart, a mind?

To be soft, loved, cute or kind?

Do you love even when it hurts?

When it's sharp, angry or curt?

Do you love until you're aged and old?

Bitter, broken-in or gross like mold?

Does it move you, does it make you sway?

Do you swoon, cry or ever get your way?

What becomes of love?

Does it fall below or fly up above?

Does it leave at all or stay deep inside?

Do you forgive, forget, let it all slide?

Do you love forever?

Or do you love never?

Until it rusts, until it stains?

Until it drives you insane?

Do you love until it burns?

Do you love until it turns?

When love leaves, if it ever does,

Will it ever be again as it once was?”

There were a long few beats of silence and then Mr. Simmons let out a long, thoughtful sigh. 

“Anonymous,” he said, addressing the paper, “I hope you know how much of a pleasure it’s been to read your work throughout the year and, as for your title and the final question of your poem – I tend to agree with you. I hope you find your answers and never, ever stop asking questions.”

By the time it occurred to Arnold that the bell had rung and Gerald was shoving his shoulder, trying to get his attention, Helga was walking out of the room with Phoebe; she didn’t even look back at him. Not once.

That summer passed quickly. Too quickly.

Helga didn’t show up at Gerald Field often and when she did, she was much more passive about captaining the team, which was unsettling. Arnold didn’t like her passiveness, it was so unlike her to not take charge – when she _was_ there, it was like she was just doing it for show. As if she had some sort of obligatory Gerald Field appearance to make at least once every two weeks or something; she didn’t speak to or look at Arnold when she’d be there.

The one time he tried to say hello to her, she spit into the dirt, rubbed the baseball between her hands and said, “family’s fine, didn’t see the game this weekend, some weather we’ve been having – now get up to bat, Football Head and let’s get this show on the road.”

So. She wasn’t interested in civil small talk, he supposed. He couldn’t remember if that was normal for her or not. He tried to let it roll off his shoulders, even though it made him feel rotten.

He saw her at the bus stop one Tuesday afternoon; he also saw Brainy following her. He wanted to say something, but Gerald was walking beside him and he didn’t want to make a scene. He figured it would just make Helga mad, anyway; besides, Helga Pataki more than anyone else could handle herself. She faced off with a wild panther; she could take on an asthmatic ten year old. Arnold didn’t exactly think Brainy was dangerous or anything, but he really didn’t like seeing him follow Helga around. 

Arnold walked by her house a few times in July too – sometimes the curtains to her bedroom window were open and other times they were closed, but never fully. She never pulled them all the way shut. 

He wondered once if she was scared of the dark and never fully shut them for that reason; he thought to himself that if she was scared of the dark, maybe she’d like to sleep in his room, on his bed, where she could see the night sky, have just a little light pollution. 

He knew a bit about astrology and since his father had been home, he’d been teaching him a lot about the stories in the sky. Helga would probably like that – she read him a poem in the jungle to soothe him and maybe, to return that favor, he could tell her a story about some stars on the beaten-in comfort of his mattress. 

To imagine lying on his bed with her, looking at the stars, being close enough that maybe their shoulders would touch – it gave him butterflies. Then he figured it was pretty presumptuous of him to assume she’d let him lie next to her on any surface anywhere at anytime for any reason – why had he even imagined lying next to her? He stopped thinking about it. 

He’d search that window for a glimpse of blonde or pink, but he’d never see anything in there. There was one night he had been walking by and he stopped to stare up at her window – the light was on, the blinds almost-shut and he hoped he’d see her silhouette. He stood there for nearly ten minutes before giving up and walking the rest of the way home, unsure of why he did that. Unsure of what he was hoping would happen if he saw her, or if she, in turn, saw him. 

He invited her to his Fourth of July party at the boarding house, which was a traditional St. Patrick’s day celebration followed by multicolored fireworks; when he called her house to invite her, her father gruffly answered the phone and asked who was calling. After re-introducing himself, Arnold overheard Bob yell out, ‘,hey, Olga – your friend Archie is on the phone!’ Then he heard some muttering and Big Bob came back on the line, saying she wasn’t available to talk and he’d take a message. Arnold twisted the cord of the phone between his fingers, staring at the floor in disappointment and wasn’t too certain Big Bob would pass on his message.

Whether Big Bob really did pass on the invitation or not didn’t seem to matter; Helga never returned his call and she didn’t come to the party. Neither did Phoebe, although she gave him a call to politely decline the offer. He was tempted to ask her how Helga was doing and if Phoebe maybe had an idea of how long this avoidance would go on for, but he didn’t. If Helga found out he’d been prying, she would’ve been livid and Phoebe was always too good a friend to break Helga’s trust. She wouldn’t share anything about Helga without Helga’s express permission, which Arnold doubted she had.

The few times he saw Helga over that summer, he saw her in shorts or jeans – pink bow ever present, but the dress seemed dead and gone. He wished he could understand why that bothered him. Maybe the idea of Helga changing at all bothered him. Maybe he was just bad with change.

In August, he saw Helga and Phoebe at the public swimming pool – he was only passing the gate with some groceries in hand, but he stared at them the entire time he walked by. He half-hoped Helga would look up from where she was kicking her feet in the water and look back at him, but she didn’t. 

A warm evening towards the end of August, Arnold excused himself from dinner, feeling restless and uneasy about the upcoming school year. His parents gave cautious smiles and advised him to take a walk to help clear his mind, so he did. He was walking through the park, stopped on the bridge and looking into the water when he saw something pink in the wavy reflection.

His head shot upright and across the park was Helga – she was just standing up, looking ready to leave. She had a pink notebook in her hand and she was tucking a pen behind her ear – through with having her ignore him, he opened his mouth to shout out to her and ask her to stay so they could talk. Before he could make a sound, though, he heard Helga’s voice, strong and clear as she threw it over her shoulder,

“Hey, Brainy – you in the bushes?”

Arnold blushed, a little horrified to watch Brainy climb out from the brush. Rather than disgusted, Helga looked begrudgingly endeared. 

_So she **does** know that Brainy stalks her_ , Arnold verified to himself, blood running hot.

Brainy’s voice was too soft or weak to hear, but whatever he said prompted Helga to order him (in the friendly way she managed with Phoebe, though Arnold had no idea how it is she asked for favors without ever using ‘please,’ or ‘thank you,’ or question marks), “you’ve been watching me write for an hour now – price of admission to the Helga Mumbling to Herself and Journaling Show has been raised to walking me home.”

She still didn’t seem to notice Arnold there, watching their interaction, feeling lost and somehow betrayed. 

Brainy’s face turned pink as her bow and he nodded to her, coming up to stand next to her. She shouldered him playfully and he smiled, rubbing his arm in a way that clearly indicated she used too much force, but he was politely accepting her rare shows of affection. Helga was never the touchy-type unless the situation called for aggression. 

Or at least, Arnold used to think he knew that about her. He was beginning to think he knew nothing about her at all. Maybe she _was_ the touchy-type, she just didn’t want to be touched by _him_.

As they left the park, Arnold could overhear Helga asking Brainy about his last doctor’s appointment and when ‘the test results,’ would come in. They turned a corner and were out of sight before Arnold could hear more.

He was just standing there, mouth slightly agape, brow furrowed, hands hanging limply and uselessly by his sides. 

Had she and Brainy struck up some sort of friendship? For how long had they been friends? Why is Helga okay with _Brainy_ , **_her stalker_** , touching her, but not _Arnold_ – the boy she presumably _loved_? And why did it all make him _so angry_?

“Bonum vespere, amicus!”

Arnold jumped with a startled, high-pitched noise and pin-wheeled around to find Curly smiling deviously at him. He tucked his hands into his pockets, rubbing Helga’s bow protectively – whenever anxiety struck him, he reached for it. It had developed into something of a compulsion. And something about Curly’s face said he knew precisely what Arnold was holding and why.

“C-Curly! Uhm, hi, I didn’t hear you –“

“Why that’s because I didn’t want you to, Arnold!” Curly grinned, “When I observe my subjects of interest, I like for their true natures to blossom and that can only happen when one doesn’t realize they’re being watched. Watched pot never boils and such.”

Arnold swallowed roughly, eyes slanting suspiciously, “uhm… okay.”

“Well, Arnold, I thought it over this summer and I’ve finally come to a decision about what payment I want in return for your emergency bow reparations.”

Brows springing up, shoulders tensing and mouth drawing into a thin line, Arnold was a little insulted and a lot frightened. He had told himself he’d keep on his toes about Curly, but time passed and he’d forgotten, let his guard down – he chided himself inwardly. He should’ve known better than to think Curly would let _anything_ go.

“Is that right?” Arnold prompted, fear thinly veiled.

“Yes,” Curly smiled, leaning his weight against the rail of the bridge, “Nothing to worry over – no strings attached, no untoward motives, no magical quests tromping through the woods for golden slippers and milky white cows!”

Curly seemed to have been waiting for a joke to land, but Arnold had no idea what any of that last bit had meant. Curly shook his head, still smiling and told him, “nevermind all that. All I need is a single and honest answer to just _one_ simple question.”

Arnold’s brow furrowed more deeply.

“…okay?”

“What made Helga fall in love with you?”

Frozen, Arnold panicked. His heart was pounding – he didn’t like this confirmation from an outside source that anyone but he and Helga knew about her feelings for him. And to have it said, _out loud_ – _those_ words…

He couldn’t tell if it was a trap – he was horribly nervous and the first words that tumbled out of his mouth were, “what-what do you mean?”

“There’s always a catalyst to these types of things, Arnold,” Curly answered, “There’s some sort of jump-start, a spark somewhere. Something made Helga fall in love with you. I want to know what it was.”

Still shaking, Arnold tried to dodge the interrogation by saying, “there’s no single answer to that – th-there never is – love isn’t that simple…”

“I know that,” Curly agreed, “I didn’t say I needed a _complete_ answer or _all_ the potential answers to my question; I just asked for one. One that is honest.”

“And why do you think I know –“

“Don’t play dumb, Arnold,” Curly tsk’ed, “it’s unbecoming of you! Helga’s been in a _state_ for months now – a state I think could only be caused by her, say… bearing her soul to you, having it closely examined under hot, bright lights and then having it skewered and showcased. A state maybe caused by daringly placing her heart on a chopping block while you held a meat cleaver and watched you beat her living, bleeding soul into submission. Or maybe you just held her hand. Or maybe you kissed her. Heh! Who knows, maybe all the above, eh?”

Arnold felt all the color drain from his face and pool somewhere lower than his feet.

“You’re looking quite pale, Arnold! Have I hit the mark? Ah, I suppose it doesn’t matter – I’m obviously close if I’m not on the money. In any case, I know she must have told you something. Given you some explanation for why she’s treated you the way she has over the years, answered maybe a question _you_ asked.”

Arnold met Curly’s eyes again, not having realized he’d been staring off, across the water to the spot Helga had been in.

“A question we all would have asked, perhaps?”

They stared at each other in silence for a few beats. 

Arnold had Helga’s ribbon curled around his fingers and he thought to himself about how distant Helga was. How distant she had intentionally made herself. And all because of him. 

He pulled the ribbon tighter across the skin of his index finger, his arm tensing up; he was loathe to admit it, even in the privacy of his own mind, but there was a big Helga G. Pataki shaped hole in his heart – in his _life_ – and all he had left of her was that ribbon. 

And the only reason he had that ribbon in a state to keep was because of Curly. 

He couldn’t calculate the trades of personal favors like this, but Arnold, after mulling it over, thought that maybe Curly’s price for the ribbon wasn’t totally outrageous. 

“I’ll only give you an honest answer if you swear not to use it against Helga.”

“Why, Arnold!” Curly gasped, looking offended and touching at his chest, “I’m appalled! I’d never dream of it! I told you – she and I are kindred spirits.”

“Then… then what exactly… I mean… why do you want to know?”

Curly smirked and crossed his arms over his chest, “maybe I decided a glimpse into her mind was worth the work. Maybe I’m writing a novel. No matter my reason, Arnold, I would never use this information to harm Helga – I will build my bridge to her in due time and it won’t involve blackmail.”

Arnold wondered how many bridges Curly had built founded on blackmail that such a disclaimer existed. He shook his head, sighed and looked down into the water again. He shut his eyes and imagined San Lorenzo.

He could see the purples, oranges and reds of the sky as the sun sank languidly past the horizon. He could see how the last lights of day made Helga’s skin glow, how long they made her lashes and how brightly her hair shined as it curtained her turned-away face.

_“Hey, Helga...?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“Why… why me?”_

He felt sudden secondhand embarrassment for his past self. He wished he’d never asked. Maybe, if he’d just played it casual like Helga had wanted, there wouldn’t be this big Nothing in his life where she had always taken up space. 

She said things on that hill – things about him being compassionate, understanding, talented, interesting and gentle. There were probably more words – or maybe different words, but they all felt the same. 

He reached into his pocket and took her ribbon out, certain that Curly already knew he had it. He held it against his cheek – it still sorta smelled like her. A little bit like cleaning chemicals, a little like the laundry detergent that rubbed its scent off from his pockets, a little like the jungle and just a little like her still.

He remembered the way her head tilted down, the crown of her hair so bright against the sunset as she looked down the hill and watched some of the native people begin their nightly routines. He remembered how badly he wanted her to face him – just to see what expression she was wearing, if maybe she looked into his eyes, he could understand… understand… whatever – whatever the million, billion things she was and how she could be all those things simultaneously.

Or maybe he just wanted to see her eyes go dreamy and foggy the way they’d get if he stood too closely to her. Maybe he was greedy and wanted to see how true, how big her love was – wanted to see someone look at him with so much adoration. 

_“Truth is… you were the first person that ever noticed me.”_

_“…I was a mistake, Arnold.”_

_“I’m like a shadow on a wall…”_

_“When it’s dark… I’m nothing at all.”_

_“But then you came…”_

His heart pounded.

_“You saw me…”_

His chest felt tight.

_“You shared your umbrella with me…”_

His grip around the ribbon turned his knuckles white.

_“You told me you liked my bow.”_

He let out a shuddering breath and opened his eyes again. He looked at Curly’s reflection in the water; his expression was appropriately solemn. His severity somehow comforted Arnold; like maybe Curly could see how heavily her love weighed on him. Or maybe it was her absence that was so heavy.

“I noticed her,” Arnold answered finally.

Curly seemed surprised.

“She doesn’t exactly make herself hard to find,” Curly stated light-heartedly.

“No – before… before she was… her home life…”

Arnold wasn’t sure how to continue. He didn’t want to share information about Helga that she might deem private or personal and even if he wanted to share that information, he didn’t know if he had the words to explain it.

“She’s grown up feeling… invisible. She told me that she felt like a shadow on the wall, her entire life. I think… I think even now, still…”

Curly frowned, but nodded in understanding.

“So she’s a shadow on the wall… then you _notice_ her, as you say, and she loves you for that?”

Arnold blushed darkly and turned away from Curly.

“I-I guess so.”

“Hmm,” Curly hummed thoughtfully, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised – it is often these most complex people have the simplest desires.”

Arnold quirked a brow and turned his head back to Curly, silently asking him to expound on that thought.

“Well, Sid’s a complicated young man – all he wants is relief, though. That would be paradise to him and I doubt he thinks of much else. He’ll probably fall in love with the first person that gives him that sense of relief. Relief – such a simple concept, but his sole want in the world, a world he finds so anxiety-provoking.”

Arnold wished he had such a good understanding of people – it made enough sense to him once someone like Curly pointed it out. Sid was always so anxious and tense, even a little paranoid at times. He was a creative type too – artistic, like Helga. He _was_ a complex person, a layered person. And relief was a befitting desire for someone like Sid, once put in the right frame.

“All I really want – have ever wanted, is unmatched affection. Validation, maybe. Or… perhaps, the validation that I deserve such affection? Some combination thereof? Anyway, I think once I have it, I will find my own kind of relief. As for Brainy… well, Brainy is an island – he probably fell in love with Helga when he realized that she mirrored his own heart. That she, too, felt estranged and divorced from her peers and from the world. He saw that she had a lonely heart not unlike his own, saw that she could understand him – that they could understand each other.”

There was a silent moment and then he heard Curly snort, “oh, dear – jealousy is not a good look on you, Arnold.”

“ _Jealous_!?” Arnold exclaimed, face red with unwarranted outrage, “Who said I was _jealous_!? I’m _not_ jealous. I’m not… I guess… I’m just… worried, I guess…”

Curly didn’t look all too convinced.

“Why worry?” Curly asked lightly, “I think if she gives him the opportunity, Brainy would bring her the moon if she asked him for it. He’s probably tripping over his own feet over the fact she invited him to walk her home. All Brainy really wants is understanding and that’s what he feels from Helga – that’s why he’s in love with her. She, just by existing, offers him all he has ever wanted to be or have or feel; understanding.”

Arnold doesn’t comment on that. His stomach is queasy and it feels like it’s tied to how stressed out he’s suddenly become, but he blames it on skipping dinner.

“And Helga. Delicate, secretive Helga. All she could ever want in the world is to be seen and heard for who she is and who she _can_ be if anyone had given her a chance. You _noticed_ her,” Curly emphasized, giving Arnold a significant look, “I can see it now. That all makes sense – the poems, the walls she builds and the bridges she burns – they are all marks on a map she wants someone to follow. A map that leads to her – the real her. She probably wants someone to see where ‘x’ marks the spot and assure her there’s treasure there. Not something dark and thin as a shadow, but glittering and heavy as gold.”

“Why… why do you want to understand her so much?” Arnold asked in genuine curiosity.

Curly looked at Arnold’s hand and asked in return, as if they were making wagers, “why didn’t you return her bow to her?”

Arnold quickly put the ribbon back into his pocket and wanted to say he didn’t know, he just couldn’t, but – something inside of him had to know. The answer was somewhere inside him, even if he couldn’t see it or feel it or understand it yet. Curly would probably just tell him that. So, he nodded to Curly and Curly nodded back at him.

“Her ribbon is restored and now I know, Helga Pataki loves Arnold Shortman undyingly because he saw a glimmer of gold where she was certain was just a shadow.”

Arnold blushed deeply.

_Helga Pataki loves Arnold Shortman undyingly…_

_Helga Pataki loves Arnold Shortman…_

_Helga Pataki loves Arnold Shortman._

Curly made some sort of musical noise that was a cross between intrigue and humor as he took his weight off the rail of the bridge and started walking away.

“He _noticed_ her. Fascinating.”

“A-and remember to keep this between us! I mean it, Curly!”

Curly turned to look at Arnold again and smiled eerily, “why, of course, Arnold! I’ll keep her secret… and I’ll keep yours too.”

Curly’s brow lifting in the direction of Arnold’s jean pocket was enough a clue to what he meant. Arnold swallowed hard and nodded, then watched Curly walk away.

He watched the sky turn red and orange through the water flowing under the bridge, eventually deemed it late enough to head home, but rather than having his mind cleared by his walk in the park, it felt more clouded than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Helga’s final 5th grade poem is by me and was written around the same age. It is probably also in the deep, dark caverns of DeviantART lol


	9. Chapter Nine

The sixth grade was just as different from the fifth as Arnold feared it would be. It was harder material, sure, but it was also the first time they had different teachers for different subjects. It was strange to be separated from Gerald – he only had English with Stinky, he saw Sid in Math, shared no classes at all with Phoebe and saw Helga in Science and History. Gerald and he would stand by whoever’s locker they were closest to and catch up with each other between classes, but it was still strange.

  
His parents encouraged him to embrace the oddity of independence, try to spin it into a positive, but the change was unwelcome, like Arnold was working against the grain. It left Arnold wondering yet again if he just didn’t do well under the pressures of change.

He worried about becoming like Mr. Kokoshka – remaining childish for the rest of his life all because of this dislike of change. He didn’t want that and he fought the instincts to act out childishly as much as he could – he didn’t want to wind up dependent, immature and selfish as Mr. Kokoshka. 

Arnold thought that, to most that knew him, it would probably appear that Arnold hadn’t changed at all, but the reality was that he was hiding the changes in his head, afraid of his rapidly shifting moods, the physical nature his passing thoughts were beginning to take on – he was afraid of the person he was growing up to be – if he would like that person.

Helga was as mysterious and withdrawn as she had been since San Lorenzo. She didn’t speak to Arnold unless she was absolutely forced to and she rarely made any eye-contact with him; when she did, it always felt like an error on her part. His heart would do something violent against his ribcage every time it happened, though. He sort of looked forward to the times that her eyes absently found his, despite the way they’d dart from him a second later, taking his trains of thought with them.

When their Science teacher rattled off the partners that’d be seated next to each other for the rest of the year in class, she and him were inevitably paired. 

There was comfort in that – how they seemed tied together by fate, no matter what happened between them. Once he heard pairs being named off at the start of class, he knew he’d be paired with her, like seeing someone out of your periphery. It was a pattern he could rely on. That’s how Arnold’s world worked – that was one thing that apparently had taken mercy on him and didn’t allow for change. He and Helga would always find themselves side by side. 

With a content sigh, he had moved some of his books aside to make room for hers and wondered if she would prefer his seat – it was closest to the door and he’d noticed through the years that Helga liked being close to exits. He thought to himself he would offer his seat to her – that maybe that would get them started on the right foot. Whether she’d be mad at being paired with him or not didn’t really even occur to him – fate was in his corner, it always had been when it came to Helga Pataki.

He had about five seconds to look forward to sharing some space with her again, sitting next to her at their table and maybe getting a chance to actually gauge her emotional wellbeing before it was mercilessly shot down.

She didn’t even hesitate – there was a nanosecond and before the teacher could even open his mouth to name the next pair, she raised her hand and asked to be paired with _anyone else_. 

Arnold was toward the front of the class and he was shocked and his ego was injured. He turned in his seat to look at her, but as usual, she avoided his stare. 

She never ceased to aggravate him – no matter the situation, he thought to himself, Helga would always find a way. Always find a way to make him feel awful or ashamed. 

The other kids were whispering, he felt embarrassed and wished he could just stage-whisper to her to cut it out, stop acting like a child and just sit next to him. He wasn’t carrying the bubonic plague for Pete’s sake! 

“Is there any particular reason you can’t be paired with Mr. Shortman?” their teacher asked impatiently.

Arnold thought she’d be boxed, but no – when was Helga Pataki anything other than loud and willing to disrespect him?

“You mean, besides the fact that I despise literally every aspect about him?”

His aggravation turned like souring milk. It was stronger. He was more than annoyed with her.

He was livid.

Some of the kids laughed – Nadine, who shared the class, looked over to Arnold with some concern. He was sort of thankful to her for how she noticed him and saw Helga’s bullying for what it was, but he was still trying to burn a hole through Helga’s head with his eyes and didn’t look back to her.

He was fuming and it was probably showing up as a blush on his face, but all that was in his head was her voice – gentle, quiet and lovely, murmuring to him on top of that hill; _“you mean besides being a literal ray of sunshine…”_

If she really felt that way, why did she say terrible things like this? 

He vowed he would never understand her or how she could get him so worked up so quickly. It was unnatural.

“I’d be pretty distracted by my bottomless loathing for him and I doubt we’d be productive. Pair me with Brainy,” she suggested, tossing her hitchhiker’s thumb over her shoulder to where – apparently – Brainy had been sitting in silence a row back.

The teacher’s brow furrowed and he looked down at his roster before asking, “…you mean, Brian?”

“Yeah,” Helga said, slouching over her tabletop, “I can actually be civil with him for longer than a count of ten.”

More kids laughed and Arnold’s blood felt like it might actually come to a boil. His ears were burning and he was unabashedly glaring at her. Not that she was looking toward him to notice. 

“As appealing as civility in my classroom sounds, Ms. Pataki,” the teacher started drily, “your dislike of Mr. Shortman is not a significant enough excuse to – “

“Dislike?” Helga scoffed disbelievingly, “Listen here, Bill Nye the I-didn’t-have-the-grades-for-the-master’s-program-so-settled-for-a-teaching-certicate-and-have-several-regrets Guy – I don’t ‘dislike’ _Mr. Shortman_.”

Arnold’s neck was hot and the teacher looked scandalized; there was something so venomous in the way she said his last name. It wasn’t playful the way her mean nicknames were – she sounded like just thinking of him left a bad taste in her mouth, a taste so foul she spat his name out like a physical thing she wanted to be rid of. Her hyperbolic anger only kindled the resentful fire growing in Arnold’s belly.

“I despise, revile – no – I _detest_ Mr. _Shortman_ , my undying contempt for him, the absolute repugnance I –“

“Ms. Pataki –“

The teacher said at the same time Arnold murmured Helga’s name bitterly to himself.

“Hey, hey, hey – don’t interrupt me,” Helga chided, eliciting more laughter from her classmates; it was probably only Arnold that realized she sounded just like her father when she said that. She’d hate to know that.

He contemplated saying it out loud.

He imagined how upset Helga would be to be likened to the father he knew she had so much disdain for – there was a rush in him, something like vengeful reward, but he knew it would be followed by immediate shame. He knew better. He was above Helga. He told himself, he was above Helga and her bouts of melodrama. He remained silent.

“Can you honestly see me working with him like this?” Helga interrogated, gesticulating widely, “I _recoil_ at even the sound of his name! Don’t you go downplaying my revulsion to him as some sort of pre-teen girlish moodswing that will swing in another direction entirely in a few hours either! I will burn this building to the frickin’ ground before I - are you getting any of this up there, Houston? Am I making contact? Are you getting a clear enough picture? Is my hatred _significant_ enough yet? I will _not_ work with him –“

 _Who would want to work with a beastly girl like you anyway?_ Arnold thought grossly, but then he disliked himself a little for having that thought at all. 

“Enough!” their teacher announced, looking almost winded, “that’s quite enough.”

The laughter quieted down into silence, kids hiding smirks behind their hands. Arnold was still burning up, strange new impulses telling him to throw his desk over or scream at Helga. Childish urges. He ignored them as best he could, but he couldn’t stop how red or hot or angry his face probably looked.

“Brian, are you okay with being Helga’s partner?” the teacher asked, rubbing his temple.

Helga answered for him, “ah, Brainy’s fine with me. Besides, kid scribbles chicken-scratch like you wouldn’t believe – you’ll be grateful for my note-taking once we start having to hand in labs.”

More laughter. 

_Why is this funny to them?_ Arnold wondered, frustrated and wanting to say something in his own defense, but feeling nothing come to the surface of his mind. 

All that was at the forefront of his mind was the Helga in San Lorenzo – the one that nearly took a bullet for him, the one that gazed into his eyes so lovingly, the one that spoke with a voice like a cello sound. How was this person the same Helga?

He opened his mouth to argue – he was ready to make a scene. If Helga wanted to be dramatic, he’d resolved to meet her head-on. He was about to _demand_ her partnership and claim he wouldn’t or couldn’t get along with anyone else, throw his arms around like she did, be just as loud and take up just as much time and space - but the teacher approved Helga’s request and started listing other people. 

Brainy collected his books and took his place next to Helga, who looked smug, but at least welcoming towards Brainy. Brainy looked flattered and embarrassed and totally unsure of what to do or say, like he just realized he had a corporeal body that required navigating.

“Take a seat, four-eyes,” Helga instructed Brainy, patting the seat of the chair next to hers encouragingly, “I don’t just talk the talk, I walk the walk – I promise I’ll really do the note-taking.”

Brainy gave her an awkward smile and then sat down beside her stiltedly. 

“Alright, that’s enough, though – no more impromptu partner-switches, okay?”

The teacher went on to mumble something about wasted class time and spoiled children, but Arnold couldn’t hear most of it over the ringing in his ears.

Arnold was paired with Lila in the end. 

Her sudden appearance at his table surprised him; he hadn’t even noticed they shared that class together.

Lunch, blessedly, was the same as always. The grade shared it together and he’d sit with Sid, Stinky, Harold and Gerald and they’d trade stories about their classes – Helga and Phoebe sat together still, but it seemed that Brainy had an official seat at the table. 

_Does Phoebe know Brainy is Helga’s **stalker**?_ Arnold thought furiously, _why is it that **no one** seems to care that he stalks her??_

He eventually traded seats with Sid so that his back faced Helga’s table – it bothered him too much to watch them all getting along. He wished the feeling of protectiveness over Helga would just vanish – she obviously didn’t return the sentiment.

 _That’s not true_ , the back of his mind argued, _Helga would do anything for you. She’d traverse jungles, scale mountains, even die for you. She’d even protect you from herself – hide her affections from you, for your sake._

He reached into his pocket and held the ribbon there, willing more patience from himself. That ribbon – it was proof, right? Proof that she loved him. 

Right?

Sixth grade passed in a haze of frustration, hormonal up and downswings and a little bit of acne. 

Without uttering a word, Helga drove him up the wall, he hated being in different classes than where all his friends were and to top it all off, after a long delay, someone broke the news to him that middle school schedules did not include recess. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of Part One!! How exciting! Thank you all for your encouraging comments! Hope you enjoy part Two!! :3


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